


chasing down an anodyne

by farseersfool



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Seriously I Am Not Joking The Burn Is Slow, Slow Burn, gratuitous present tense, i swear this isn't abandoned the author has just temporarily lost inspiration, musician au, viktor has depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farseersfool/pseuds/farseersfool
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov is a world class figure skater, a five-time world champion, and an Olympic gold medalist. But he's lost his passion for skating.Katsuki Yuuri is a graduate student at one of the world's best conservatories, a brilliant musician, and an aspiring composer. But he doesn't have any faith in his own abilities.Against all odds, each might have what the other needs.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the musician/composer AU no one asked for, but I'm writing anyway.
> 
> Ten million thanks to my beta, [ Cloudy,](http://cloudmonstachopper.tumblr.com) who took this pile of non-recyclable garbage and made it into something worth reading, even though they're swamped with work for grad school.
> 
> Comes with an [official playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/rowan.grey/playlist/5crUMqLco7NJmqWEiYmpiG) (Opens in Spotify, more details at the end.)

_**July 2013** _

“What brings you in today, Mr. Nikiforov?” The doctor asks, not unkindly, as she glances over the notes the nurse had made on his chart.

Viktor sighs, already a little tired of this whole ordeal, never mind the fact that he’d only arrived at the medical center fifteen minutes earlier.

“My coach is worried,” he says, after a second goes by, “Because I’ve been losing weight recently.”

The doctor looks at the chart again, flipping back to an earlier entry.

“You _have_ dropped a fair amount since your last visit, especially for an athlete,” she muses, then looked up and meets his eyes—or tries to—he sees it out of his periphery, since he’s looking away, focusing instead on one of the unsettling infographics tacked up on the wall. After a moment, she goes on. “Have you been feeling under the weather at all?”

Viktor thinks about that for a second—he’s been tired; sometimes getting out of bed is the hardest thing he does all day. But no, he hasn’t been feeling sick. Or at least, he hasn’t experienced anything he _associates_ with sickness—no fever, no headache, no nausea.

“I’m fine,” he answers at length, and truthfully, as far as he’s concerned. Really, he’s _certain_ Yakov is just overreacting. After a moment, he shrugs and adds, “Just...tired, lately.”

The doctor nods, and sets his chart aside. “Can you think of anything that might have caused the weight loss? Developed a new food allergy, recent illness, new medications, anything like that?”

He’s is shaking his head before she’s even finished, and when she trails off, he says, “Nothing like that. I haven’t had much of an appetite, that’s all.”

“Does the thought of food make you feel sick at all?”

“No,” he replies honestly, “It just doesn’t look appealing.”

The doctor _hmm_ s quietly at that, and turns to a small filing cabinet, opening the top drawer.

“Would you mind filling out a quick questionnaire for me?” She asks, as she rifles through the folders. “It may help me figure out what’s going on.”

Viktor _really_ doesn’t think whatever was going on merits this much trouble. He’d really only scheduled this appointment so he could prove to Yakov that there’s nothing wrong with him, anyway. Still, he nods politely to the doctor’s question and settles back into the chair.

After another few seconds of searching, the doctor pulls out a one-page document, grabs a spare clipboard from the top of the cabinet, and hands them over to Viktor, along with the pen that had been clipped to her coat pocket.

He looks down at the paper. The title isn’t enlightening: _Patient Health Questionnaire_ followed by a complicated identification code.

With a sigh, he gets to work filling out the answers as best he can.

Some of the questions are startlingly appropriate to his situation: _‘Feeling tired or having little energy,’ ‘Trouble concentrating on things,’_ and _‘Poor appetite.’_ Some aren’t applicable at _all,_ like the one that asks about suicidal ideation. Still, it’s easy enough to provide answers to all of them, and he marks in his responses and returns the form to the doctor.

She’s silent for a few long moments, tallying up his score and comparing it to what seems to be a key, pursing her lips, and looking over the numbers again.

“Well,” she says finally, just as Viktor is beginning to grow restless, “Based on this, I’d guess that your problem is largely due to depression.”

Viktor half-laughs, and rolls his eyes at the joke, thought he really doesn’t think it’s funny.

When her expression doesn’t change, he asks, “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Quite serious,” the doctor replies. “You scored in the ‘moderately severe’ category.”

“I don’t feel _sad_ ,” Viktor protests. If anything he has trouble feeling sad, or happy, or anything really, even when he knows he _should_. “And even if I did, how is that supposed to affect my health, beyond making me annoying to be around?” He thinks back to Georgi’s recent breakup and subsequent melancholy, and he’s sure he hasn’t been behaving anything like _that_.

The doctor purses her lips again and says, “That’s a big misconception about depression. It’s not necessarily an experience of feeling sad, but...” and she goes on to explain the common symptoms—apathy, weight gain or loss, oversleeping or sleeping less, et cetera, et cetera. Viktor tries not to listen, but the words stick in his head, anyway. It hits a little close to home, how well some of her examples match his experiences.

But it can’t be right. There has to be some other explanation.

He’s Viktor Nikiforov; he’s won the Grand Prix Final, the European Championships, and Worlds for the past three years running. Viktor Nikiforov, Olympic gold medalist, national hero. He has _absolutely no reason_ to be depressed.

“...And we can look into medication, if that’s something you might want to try. I can also recommend several counselors that specialize in this type of thing.”

She’s looking at him expectantly, and Viktor forces a smile. It’s a weak effort and he knows it. “I’ll definitely think about that. Thank you for your time, but I really have to be on my way.”

The doctor looks troubled, but she nods. Viktor stands up and heads to the door of the examination room.

“You know,” the doctor begins, sounding a little hesitant, just as he puts his hand on the knob. Instinctively, he halts and looks back at her, and she goes on, “there’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?”

Viktor’s smile weakens even further, but he managed to keep it in place as he repeats, “I really have to go, thank you.”

Later, he’ll tell Yakov that the doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with him, that it must have just been a fluke. He’ll force himself to eat everything on his meal plan, even though it might as well be ash and cardboard for all that he’ll taste it, let alone enjoy it.

Soon enough, he’ll be back in ideal physical condition and no one will bother to ask after his health.

Soon enough, he’ll learn to fake it so well that sometimes even he’ll believe that there’s nothing wrong.

 

-

 

_**March 2014** _

It sounds like...an inverted two chord with...a suspended major seventh? Leading into a tonic triad...he rewinds a few seconds, listens again...and, yes, that sounds right.

Having figured out the chords, Yuuri notes down the progression on his homework, and jumps when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he pauses the piece he’s been dictating for his advanced music theory class, and takes off his headphones.

“Sorry, Phichit,” he tells his roommate. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

Phichit just smiles and says, “I know how you get when you’re focused on an assignment, no need to apologize.”

Yuuri returns the grin and asks, “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see if you’d had dinner yet,” he says, tilting the end of the statement up into a query, and Yuuri’s stomach grumbles at the mere mention of food—he _hasn’t_ eaten yet, and he probably would have forgotten entirely without Phichit’s reminder. He tends to hyper-focus when he’s working on a project.

Phichit just laughs at the rumble, and says, “Can I take that as a no?”

Yuuri, flushing with embarrassment, just nods.

“Come eat with me,” Phichit suggests, “I found a Thai place a few blocks away that has crab curry _almost_ as good as my dad’s.”

Yuuri’s stomach echoes agreement, but he hesitates. Crab curry sounds _amazing—_ well, now that it’s been brought to his attention, he’s hungry enough that _anything_ sounds good, but Phichit really hasgot him hooked on Thai food since they’d first become roommates almost a year earlier. Still...he’s not sure if he should be going out for dinner.

Living in New York is expensive, and with tuition on top of it...His parents are helping him out as much as they can, and he’s got his work study bringing in a little cash, but money is still tight.

“My treat,” Phichit adds, and Yuuri caves.

“Alright, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” he agrees.

“Of course!” Phichit agrees readily. “I didn’t want to go by myself.”

Yuuri puts on his coat and a scarf, steps into his shoes, and they head out of the tiny apartment they share and into the cold of a New York evening in early spring. He’s going to be graduating from Julliard before too long, but even after almost four years here, he’s still not used to how cold it gets. Compared to this, Fukuoka winters are downright pleasant.

He can’t believe he’s trying to get into graduate school in _St. Petersburg_ of all places _,_ which will be even worse.

He and Phichit chat idly about school and their families and friends on the walk to the restaurant. He’s surprised by howclose it is to their apartment, but hidden as it is between a coin laundry shop and a tattoo parlor, it’s no shock that neither of them have noticed it before.

There’s no wait for a table, and they take a seat in the back corner, as far away from the door and its infrequent blasts of cold air as possible. Yuuri looks over the menu for a while, but ends up going with the crab curry anyway.

“How much do you know about figure skating?” Phichit asks, as the waitress heads to the kitchen with their orders.

Yuuri blinks at the unexpected conversation topic. “Nothing, really,” he replies, “At least, nothing beyond what I’ve seen in movies. Why do you ask?”

“Felicia—you know, the percussionist in my ensemble? She’s really into it and she showed us a video of an interview with this one professional skater...I can’t remember his name, something Russian...anyway, you remember how we were talking about how musicians and composers don’t get credit for their work a lot of the time, the other day?”

Yuuri nods to show that he remembers.

Phichit shrugs and says, “This reminded me of that, so I thought I’d show you.”

He slides his phone and earphones across the table to Yuuri, the video already up on the screen. Curious, he puts in the earphones and presses play.

The man they’re interviewing is young, maybe a few years older than Yuuri himself, with the most striking silver-platinum hair he’s ever seen, and a light Russian accent coloring his words.

He’s finishing up the tail-end of another question, something about a ‘quad lutz,’ whatever that is, at the start of the video. However, the interviewer’s next question grabs Yuuri’s attention.

“We’ve noticed that your programs are a little unusual, in that you always have the commentators announce the composer of your program music. Would you mind filling us in on that?”

The Russian man nods, and wow, he has a beautiful smile. “Sure thing, Henrik. It’s no secret that I personally commission all the music that I skate to. I have been for years.” He pauses briefly, eyes flicking from the interviewer to the camera, and goes on, “And I’ve had the privilege to work with some really talented musicians from all over the world. It wouldn’t be right, after they’re putting in all that time and effort, to not get any of the credit, you know? The music is really what makes the program, after all.”

“Wow! I’m sure musicians everywhere are really excited to hear you say that,” the interviewer replies, and the video ends with the skater smiling into the camera again. With the ending, the video title pops up: _Viktor Nikiforov 2013 Skate Canada Gold Medalist – Interview._

Yuuri pulls out the earphones and slides Phichit’s phone back over to him.

“That’s pretty cool of him, right?” He asks, taking the phone back and slipping it into his pocket, and Yuuri agrees readily.

Nevertheless, he promptly forgets all about it as soon as his food comes—it’s delicious, just like Phichit said it would be.

He doesn’t think about the video again until he’s back home that night, lying in bed with his laptop balanced on his chest. He’s finished all his assignments that are due the next day, but he isn’t quite tired enough to go to sleep, and he’s a little bit bored now that he’s out of work that needs to be done.

Chasing an idle thought, he goes to Youtube and types in the name of the skater from the video—it takes him a few tries to spell it correctly; Russian names are hard—but he figures it out eventually, with the help of the search suggestions.

There are a remarkable number of videos. Apparently, this guy has been skating for over a decade already. And judging by the number of views and comments on the videos, he’s pretty popular. He clicks on one at random, a video from some exhibition several years back. He barely recognizes the skater in this. His hair is long, streaming out behind him like a banner as he glides, spins, and flies across the ice.

Yuuri’s not familiar with figure skating, but that doesn’t matter. The routine is breathtaking. _He’s_ breathtaking. He doesn’t so much skate to the music as let it move him across the ice, like it’s part of him.

By the time he realizes that it’s two in the morning, he’s lost count of how many of the videos he’s watched.

He’s going to regret it when he has his music theory class early the next morning, but he can’t resist clicking just one more.

 

-

 

_**Mid January 2016** _

“Yakov,” Viktor says as practice is ending, getting his coach’s attention, “I need to talk to you.”

The perpetual furrow in Yakov’s brow deepens at his words, but he nods, waving at Mila, Georgi, and Yuri to go on without them.

Maybe it’s the uncharacteristically somber tone of his voice, or something in his expression, or just the unusual request, but Yakov waits patiently while Viktor tries to decide the best way to say what he needs to.

While he tries to translate his thoughts into words, Viktor leans against the wall surrounding the ice, resting his elbows on the rail and looking out over it.

This has been his whole life since...almost before he can remember.

“This next season will be my last,” Viktor announces eventually. It’s not loud, but there’s a sense of finality in his voice.

“You’re retiring?” Yakov asks. His tone is neutral, and Viktor doesn’t turn to see his face, to try to glean anything from his expression.

“Yes,” he answers.

Yakov is silent for a long time, long enough that Viktor begins to worry.

“Are you sure?” He asks, at length.

“I am,” Viktor replies.

There’s another long silence, Viktor waiting, Yakov processing. Finally, he comes forward to rest his elbows on the rail too, sighing heavily as he leans forward.

“Somehow, I never thought I’d see the day,” Yakov says, his voice gruff but measured. He’s not upset, not angry, and this unsettles Viktor more than the anticipated shouting would have. He glances over, and, even more shockingly, Yakov chuckles briefly. “I thought you were one of the ones I’d have to scrape up off the ice, that you’d die before you retired,” he explains.

Viktor _hmms_ lightly at that. It’s not an unreasonable assumption. Skating has defined his whole life since the day he’d strapped on his very first pair of skates when he’d barely been old enough to walk.

“And don’t think I’m not disappointed to be losing my star skater,” Yakov continues when Viktor doesn’t respond, “But if you really think this is best for you, if it’s what you _really, really_ need to do, I’ll support you, of course.”

Viktor exhales slowly through his nose, amazed at how well this is going.

“I thought you were going to yell at me,” he admits, quirking his lips into a grin that he doesn’t really feel. He doesn’t feel much of anything, these days.

Yakov shrugs. “I’ve been coaching skaters for a long time, Vitya. You all retire eventually; if I got upset over every one, I’d never _stop_ yelling. And I’ve learned to see these things coming.”

For a second, the smile on Viktor’s face is more genuine. There are days when it _does_ feel like Yakov never stops.

“Well...thank you,” Viktor says at last, as the words hang in the air. This is all uncomfortably sincere.

Yakov only shrugs, and says, “Yeah, well, we’ve still got the European Championships and Worlds before this season ends, so don’t think you’re off the hook, there,” He pauses, and Viktor rolls his eyes. This is the Yakov he knows. “But after that—let’s make your last season one for the books, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Viktor agrees, looking down, over the rail at the rink below.

So this is it. He’s finally retiring.

When he’d been eighteen, fresh from his first Winter Olympics, he’d felt invincible. Like there was no way he would ever leave the ice.

Now, almost ten years later, he’s staring down the imminent prospect of retirement, and there’s a part of him that hates it. After all, this really has been his whole life, and he doesn’t really know who he is if he isn’t skating.

But there’s another part of him that’s so, so incredibly relieved.

He has to have loved this sport, once. If he thinks back, he can remember that feeling, that warm surge of joy every time he would lace up his skates, the sheer, animal exhilaration of perfectly landing a difficult jump.

He can remember it, but he can’t recapture it.

It’s not something anyone else has noticed, he doesn’t think, but Viktor hasn’t felt any joy in his work for a long time. He keeps training tirelessly, keeps choreographing and skating programs that the newscasters all call ‘brilliant’ and ‘inspired,’ and he keeps winning.

But the career that he’d once loved now sits like a yoke across his shoulders, weighing him down until he fears the ice will crack beneath his blades.

But, again, it’s all he knows, so he keeps smiling, keeps acting like he’s on top of the world, and nobody suspects a thing.

If anything, that makes it worse.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice when Yakov leaves, not until he hears the soft _click_ of the rink’s door behind him as it closes, startling him back into awareness. He lingers for a while longer, just him and the empty rink, thinking of nothing in particular, then turns and follows Yakov out the door, through the lobby, and out into the slanting afternoon sunlight. The walk back to his apartment isn’t a long one—the proximity of the building to the rink was the reason he’d picked it in the first place—but it’s not a pleasant one, not in early January. He’s been living here his whole life, but each year still finds him unprepared for the reality of a winter in Russia. Even though the sun is out, he finds himself thoroughly chilled by the time he makes it home.

As he fits the key to the lock he can hear the telltale scrabble and _tick tick tick_ of dog feet over his wooden floors, and when he steps through the door into his warm apartment, Makkachin is there to meet him, her whole body wriggling with delight at his return.

He smiles at that, a real smile, and kneels down to greet her. She butts her head into his open hand, and he gladly sinks his fingers into her soft fur, rubbing her ears. Sometimes, it feels like she’s the only thing in his life that’s bright and solid and warm, and he lets himself just breathe for a moment as the both of them bask in the pleasure of the other’s affection and regard.

“Alright girl, do you want to go outside?” He asks, resigning himself to facing the cold again, and her ears perk up with excitement as she prances in anticipation. “Been stuck in here by yourself all afternoon, poor baby,” Viktor continues, and stands up to let her out.

He opens the door and Makkachinraces ahead of him down the stairs and to the small lawn behind his building, turning back every few steps to make sure he’s following. She’s a little disappointed when he guides her back toward the apartment door as soon as she does her business, but he explains to her that he’s tired from practice, and wants to have a shower, and he promises to take her to the park this weekend to make up for it.

One of his neighbor’s children, a little boy playing outside in the snow, giggles at five-time world champion Viktor Nikiforov talking to his dog like she’s a person, but Viktor just smiles and shrugs it off, because who else does he have to talk to? Makkachin might not really understand, but she’ll always listen.

Back inside, Viktor heads straight to the bathroom, shrugging off his practice clothes and stepping into the shower, letting the hot water pound the ache from his shoulders and legs, the warmth seep into him, banishing the chill from his bones.

Was he this tired and sore after a long afternoon of skating practice a year ago? Two years ago? This sport hasn’t been easy on his body, and though he’s been as careful as he can be, he knows his joints and muscles are starting to wear out under the strain of two decades of intense training.

If anyone asks, he can say that’s why he’s retiring. It’s not the truth, but no one needs to know that. Besides, how is he supposed to explain the real reason? No one would understand. Hell, _he_ doesn’t really understand. All in all, the lie will be easier for everyone.

The water’s starting to lose its heat, so he turns it off and steps out of the shower, drying off quickly and putting on some of his ‘not leaving the apartment’ clothes. Now dressed, he goes into the kitchen to give Makkachin her dinner, and while she’s crunching away on her food, he picks up his phone, unlocking it to check his messages for the first time since before practice.

His eyes widen when he sees that almost everyone he knows has written to him—and they’ve all sent the exact same thing.

[Screenshot: Youtube video entitled “Yuuri Katsuki rewrites Viktor Nikiforov’s 2012 Program Music.” Posted by user phichitplayspiano. Description reads, “My friend Yuuri told me not to share this, but I couldn’t resist! His compositions are amazing!” It has over 300,000 views.]

It’s a video, and from the thumbnail he can see that it’s a one of his old free skate routines.

He lifts an eyebrow at the title; he doesn’t know who this ‘Yuuri Katsuki’ is, but Viktor rather liked his 2012 program music the way it was.

Before starting the video, he takes a look at the stats and, wow, it’s gained a remarkable amount of attention since it was uploaded this morning. Several hundred thousand views, relatively few negative reactions, and the comments, minus the usual trolls, all say some variation on ‘this is better than the original!’

Curious now, Viktor turns up his volume and hits play. It only takes him a few seconds to change his mind about the new music—and to regret _ever_ having any ill feeling toward it, no matter how brief.

It’s...entrancing. The style is _nothing_ like the actual program piece, but it somehow captures the routine in a way that the original music didn’t. It’s lush, with rich cascading strings, a subtle piano line, tinkling chimes, and something else, some instrument he can’t name right off. All together it’s _beautiful_ though, layered with deep, dark harmonies that resonate in his bones, even through the tinny, lo-fi speaker on his phone.

Viktor knows what’s coming, knows this routine better than anyone else, but there’s something about the way the tension in the music builds every time he leads up to a jump, how it hangs suspended before releasing that makes it something new. It captures in sound the _exact_ feeling of a jump.

The pace picks up and the music does too, rising in a crescendo of strings that sound like the sun breaking through storm clouds as Viktor goes into the step sequence. As he moves into the last jump-spin combo, the song crescendos to a dramatic climax, then immediately backs off, quiets into a gentle, almost regretful duet between cello and piano, fading out completely as he takes his final pose.

It’s absolutely, unequivocally, ineffably wonderful.

“Wow,” Viktor breathes, as the video ends.

He gets up, retrieves his good headphones from the nightstand in his bedroom, and plugs them into the jack on his phone before pressing replay on the video.

He doesn’t even bother to look at the screen this time, just sits back and closes his eyes. He can _feel_ the ice beneath his blades, the air rushing through his hair as he glides, spins, the moment of exhilaration when his feet leave the earth. He feels it all, and, for the first time in what must be years _,_ he loves it again.

“Wow,” he says again, after listening to the music a second time.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to accomplish it, but Viktor sees only one way forward from here: he needs to figure out how to contact Yuuri Katsuki. He can’t imagine anyone else writing the music for his final season. It’s been so long since he’s felt inspired, since he _wanted_ to get out onto the ice and skate, letting his music move through him. He can’t give this feeling up. He can’t, not now that he’s gotten a taste of it again, remembered how _good_ it is.

He _has_ to find Yuuri Katsuki.

 

-

 

_**Early January 2016** _

It starts out of boredom, really. It’s winter break, so he doesn’t have any classes to occupy his time, Phichit doesn’t get back from his visit to his family in Thailand until the weekend before school starts again, and it’s too cold to spend much time outside of the apartment. He’d wanted to go see his family, too, but hadn’t had enough saved up to afford a plane ticket, so he ended up offering to stay in Russia and take care of Phichit’s hamsters while he’s away.

Yuuri can’t believe that he’s already been living in St. Petersburg for a full year, today. Almost as soon as he finished his undergrad degree at Julliard, he’d packed up everything he owned and shipped it, and himself, off to Russia.

It had been hard, leaving. Even after four years, he had still been a little overwhelmed by New York, but there was a lot to love about the city, too. And then there were his friends, his professors, even his favorite shops and restaurants, all gone, out of his reach.

Moving is always hard. He remembers that he’d felt the same way about Hasetsu, when he’d first gone to America for school.

Russia is so different from the both of them that he’s still a bit out of his depth, surrounded by a new alphabet, a new language, new foods, new everything.

When Phichit had decided to transfer to St. Petersburg to finish his degree only a semester after Yuuri had graduated, he’d nearly wept with gratitude. He knows he didn’t _really_ factor into his friend’s decision—One of the best pianists in the world lives here and had begun teaching at the conservatory the previous year, and Phichit has admired him since he was young, so the transfer was nothing short of inevitable—but the sentiment is there.

It’s the same reason Yuuri’s here, too. The St. Petersburg conservatory has, probably, the best music composition program for graduate students in the world. And for that, he’ll deal with the uncomfortable unfamiliarity of it all without complaining. He’ll even deal with the cold without complaining—well, without complaining _too_ much.

The point is, though, that he’s spending a lot of time in his apartment during the break, and he’s starting to develop a case of cabin fever. There are only so many sitcom episodes he can watch before he needs to find something to actually engagehis brain, and the hamsters, while cute, don’t actually take up much of his time.

And besides—he wants to compose. That want is always there, in the back of his mind, like an itch. He’s always coming up with fragments of melody, humming while he cooks or studies, finding new and complex harmonies in the world around him, in the blare of car horns during rush hour, in the high-pitched howling of the wind as it rushes in over the Baltic Sea. Sometimes it’ll be so strong that he can’t sleep, can’t rest until he’s managed to sit down and write out the music playing in his head.

More than that, it’s an escape, too. When he’s got his headphones on and his music notation software pulled up, he’s not thinking about how nervous he is to meet with his professor in a few weeks, or how he messed up one of the pieces in his last recital, or how the last time he’d tried to use his newly acquired Russian language skills with a native speaker, she’d laughed at him. He’s not thinking any of that, or anything at all, really. The world narrows to him and his music.

And he wants that, now. He doesn’t really have a project he’s working on at the moment, and no new ideas have been bouncing around in his head, either. He needs a...prompt, maybe. That’s what novelists do when they have writer’s block, right? But what would he do?

He’s on his laptop, browsing idly, and he pulls up Youtube. Right there at the top of the page, in his ‘recommended videos,’ are several of Viktor Nikiforov’s routines.

Yuuri can’t say he’s really _into_ figure skating. Still, he does enjoy watching skaters like Viktor perform, moving like they’re avatars of the music, eloquent visualizations of something that’s, by nature, invisible. He likes watching dancers for the same reason, even though he knows next to nothing about it himself—well, beyond that one bizarre semester of _intro to ballroom dancing_ a friend in New York had talked him into taking with her.

Still, the idea of creating music through motion...Now _there’s_ an idea. He pulls up one of Viktor’s routines that he doesn’t remember having seen before—2012 worlds—and immediately mutes it before he can hear what the music is supposed to sound like. It might be fun to do the process in reverse, to make the music fit the program. At the very least, something like this will keep him occupied while he’s cooped up here by himself.

He watches the routine a few times, getting ideas almost immediately. When he has a good idea, he opens up his notation software and begins sketching out a rough outline of melody and chord progression. It’s unusual, it’s dramatic, and as Yuuri works on it over the next few days, filling in the details on the melodic lines, adding complexity to the accompaniment, and adjusting the phrasing to perfectly match the routine, he starts to think it might actually be...kind of not bad.

He might as well keep working on it, since he’s still got another week and a half before the semester starts. So, he braves the cold and takes the bus to the school. It’s deserted over the holiday, but his student key card gets him in the front door, and everywhere else he needs to go.

He starts with his first, and still favorite instrument: the cello. Then he works his way through the other parts in order of his comfort level: piano, bassoon, contrabass, chimes. He works on the piece a little more, his hands learning to play what his mind has written. When he’s satisfied, he finds a key to one of the school’s recording studios, sets up the equipment, and records of all the parts. It takes him a full week before he’s satisfied with the results.

He’s just about finished mixing the piece, and is almost done writing his synthesized percussion track when Phichit gets back.

“Why did we decide to move here?” Is the first thing he says when he walks through the door. He’s bundled up in layers upon layers of sweaters and coats, and Yuuri has to sympathize. No matter how much warmer Fukuoka is than St. Petersburg, it’s not _tropical_ like Phichit’s hometown of Bangkok is. Getting on the plane in balmy Thailand and getting off in frozen Russia has to be a rough transition.

“Because you want to be the first world-famous Thai pianist?” Yuuri reminds him facetiously, and sets his laptop aside so he can help Phichit with his luggage.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he says with a laugh, gladly surrendering an overstuffed duffel bag to Yuuri and taking off his outermost coat—he’s still wearing a smaller one and what looks like two sweaters, though. “This is why I keep you around, Yuuri. You always remember the important things. And you feed my children. Thanks for taking care of them while I was gone.”

Yuuri laughs and says, “it was no trouble,” then follows Phichit to his bedroom with the duffel. They deposit the bags just inside the door to the room, and Phichit goes to coo over his hamsters for a few minutes and tell them how much he missed them. When he’s done, he stands, turns, and goes back out into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

This gives him a perfect view of the project still up on the laptop’s screen, and Yuuri sees his eyebrows shoot up.

“Tell me you haven’t spent this whole break doing homework, Yuuri,” Phichit demands, and Yuuri laughs again.

“No, no,” he assures him, “It’s a personal project. Just something I’m doing for fun.”

“You spend all your time during the semester writing music, and you want to do it in your free time too?”

“Like you’re one to talk; I’ve had to drag you out of practice rooms at one in the morning because you didn’t want to stop playing,” Yuuri said, sighing in fond exasperation at the memory— _memories,_ technically, as it happened more than once.

Phichit laughs, but shoots back, “Oh? And what about all the times I’ve gone to bed while you’ve been sitting on the couch, working on some piece, and gotten up in the morning and _you’re still there_?”

At that, they both start laughing. It’s really nice to have his best friend back.

“Okay, okay, that’s a fair point,” Yuuri says once his giggles have subsided, “But enough about that, how was your trip?”

At the question, Phichit’s face lights up. He tells Yuuri all about how big his youngest sister has gotten, and how his mom cried when she picked him up from the airport, and how the weather had been nice enough for them to go to the beach, and how his dad’s parrot remembered his name, and so many other little stories of a life he’d easily slipped back into after three years away. While he talks, Phichit goes to his room and digs a small bag out of his luggage, passing Yuuri some of the candies and snacks he’d brought back for Yuuri to try.

Yuuri listens attentively, asking questions, laughing when the story calls for it, and he’s happy for his friend, he really is. Nevertheless, hearing all this actually—selfishly, he knows—makes him feel a little homesick. He’s not sure if it’s for Hasestsu or New York, or just for all the people he’s had to leave behind, but it’s got him feeling a little melancholy.

“And that’s pretty much it,” Phichit says, finishing his story. “What have you been doing over the past few weeks?”

Yuuri shrugs a little, not wanting to admit that he’d gone a good three days without even changing out of his sleep clothes at one point, and just gestures at the laptop, where his project is still up on the screen.

“Well, knowing you, it’ll be good enough to justify spending your whole break on it. Can I hear?”

“Well, ah, it’s not quite done yet, and it goes with a video...” But Phichit is just looking at him brightly, undeterred, so Yuuri sighs and relents. He pulls up the routine on Youtube, mutes and pauses it, and syncs it up with the track before handing his headphones and laptop over to Phichit.

He nods, and starts both song and video as Yuuri carefully studies his expression, trying to get an idea of what he thinks.

Phichit’s face goes slack within the first minute, and he’s rapt with attention. His jaw drops, his eyes go wide, and he actually gasps at one point. Yuuri, blushing a little at the reaction, fidgets in anticipation.

“Oh my god, Yuuri,” Phichit says, taking the headphones off and setting his laptop aside. “You’ve _got_ to tweet that to Viktor or...or something.”

“What?” Yuuri asks, a little taken aback by the suggestion, “Why? It was just something I did for fun in my spare time.”

Phichit actually rolls his eyes, and mutters something that might be ‘so did Bach,’ but he lets the comment go otherwise, instead saying, “Well, either way, let me know when you finish the percussion track? I want to hear the final version.”

“Phichit? You wouldn’t put this on the internet without telling me, would you?”

Phichit looks hurt. “Me? I thought you trusted me. You know that I would _never_ do something like that.”

It’s Yuuri’s turn to roll his eyes and let a remark slide. After a few more minutes of conversation, they turn on the tiny television set they’d rescued from a secondhand store, and watch part of a movie, before Phichit, obviously hiding a yawn, announces that he’s too tired and jet-lagged to try to fix his circadian rhythms back to this time zone right away, and goes on to bed.

Yuuri stays up late again, finishing the percussion track and perfecting the piece. He absolutely _does not_ send it to Phichit, just saves the file to his cloud storage so he won’t lose it in the event that his laptop decides to spontaneously combust, and then takes himself to bed as well.

He sleeps in the next day, not waking up until after noon, and only then because his phone has been vibrating with incoming messages _constantly_ for the past few hours—someone must have added him to a group chat or something, he thinks when he notices it, before promptly rolling over and going back to sleep.

But it keeps happening, and eventually he sits up, puts on his glasses, and looks at the messages.

“He works fast,” is all Yuuri can say, dismayed and confused, finding his piece perfectly synced to the video of Viktor’s 2012 routine, and already approaching 100k views on Youtube. How had Phichit even gotten ahold of the file—then he groans as he remembers that the two of them share a network, and Phichit has access to all the files he saves to his cloud.

He glances through the texts he’s gotten, friends complimenting him on his work, joking about how much free time he must have to do stuff like that for fun, and one or two teasing him about a celebrity crush.

He doesn’t have the energy to reply to them all immediately, or even to get up go chastise Phichit for doing the _one_ thing he asked him not to do. With a sigh, Yuuri flops back down onto his blankets and stares at the ceiling.

The thought of a _hundred thousand_ people hearing his work online makes him indefinably nervous, akin to but _completely_ different from how he feels stepping onto the stage for a performance, or sitting in the audience as a group plays one of his pieces.

He doesn’t know how much he cares for this complete lack of control over his work, but it’s out of his hands, now. With any luck, everyone will forget about this in a few days and he won’t get an angry letter from Viktor Nikiforov for screwing up his program or anything.

He laughs a little at that, just a hard exhale through his nose as the corners of his mouth turn up. The chances that Viktor will even _see_ the video are pretty much nonexistent, so, as good as he is at worrying about completely improbable events, _that’s_ so impossible even _he_ isn’t too concerned about it.

In the true spirit of the last day of break, Yuuri turns his phone off, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

 

_-_

 

_**Mid January 2016** _

It’s a good thing that Sundays are his days off, because Viktor had had absolutely _no_ luck getting any sleep the night before. He’d spent the half the night tossing and turning, enough so that Makkachin, huffing in annoyance, had jumped down from the bed to curl up on the floor rather than be elbowed again.

It’s almost a fever, this overwhelming need to find Yuuri Katsuki. He’s terribly, terribly curious as to what kind of person was able to write music so beautiful, so evocative that he had experienced actual emotions for the first time in...too long. He needs to know who he is.

But more than anything, he needs to feel that way again.

Viktor didn’t notice himself sliding into depression while it was happening—and yes, that’s what it is, he can admit that now. He wasn’t perfectly fine one day and then numb and apathetic the next. It wasn’t even a linear progression over an exact period of time.

All he knows is that, if he thinks back far enough, he can remember living his life in color, really engaging with the world around him, but now it’s like everything’s faded to sepia. Every now and again, something will happen and he’ll get flashes of bright, rich jewel tones again, but then it’s right back to grey and brown. Those are the worst times, really, because while he didn’t notice his initial downward spiral, he definitely notices when he gets everything back, and then loses it again just as quickly.

This time, though, he can do something about it. The ball is in his court, so to speak. So, of course, he does the only reasonable thing anyone would do, searching for someone they know almost nothing about.

He googles Yuuri.

At first, it’s _terribly_ unproductive and downright frustrating. There are _several_ facebook profiles under his name, and while he can make guesses, he has no idea which—if any—is the _correct_ Yuuri Katsuki.

He also finds twitter account—but it’s set to private. There’s a Linkedin profile, which he’s certain belongs to the right Yuuri, but it looks like he barely bothered to fill it out before forgetting about it—there’s just the name, no picture, no bio, although he finds out that Yuuri apparently went to Julliard, and graduated about a year ago.

Even Instagram turns up empty. The profile “@Katsudon-yuuri” comes up in his search, but it’s had one single photo uploaded to it: a picture of some meat, egg, and rice dish, posted in October of 2011. The caption is in Japanese, so he can’t even glean any information about him from that, if it’s even the right person.

There’s really only one thing he can do, and it involves sinking to a level of ‘desperate’ and ‘borderline stalker’ that living legend Viktor Nikiforov never thought he’d have to achieve.

He pulls up the video of his routine, pauses to listen to the song again, because damn, it’s just as good the eighth time, then clicks over to the profile of the person who uploaded it, who, based on the description, is a friend of Yuuri’s.

He doesn’t take the time to click on any of the other videos on the channel, but they all seem to be of a young, slender South Asian man playing the piano. He opens the ‘about’ tab, hoping to find some method of contacting the uploader.

And he hits jackpot. Phichit Chulanont is his name according to the description box, and there’s a link to a Facebook page, an Instagram profile, a Twitter account, a Tumblr, a Soundcloud, and a Patreon.

If only he’d been looking for Phichit instead of Yuuri, Viktor thinks, he’d have probably figured out his home address, phone number, and bank account information in the amount of time it’s taken him to get this far in his Yuuri search.

He opens up the link to the Twitter profile, and types in a message to him.

[Tweet text: @PhichitPiano: Hi, sorry if this is super weird, but you’re Yuuri Katsuki’s friend, right? Do you know how I can contact him?]

And then he settles in, sprawling out on his couch, and Makkachin scrambles over to join him, draping herself across his lap. With one hand, he absently reaches down to tangle his fingers in the soft pouf of fur on her head while he pulls up a few clickbait articles to pass the time. He pretends to read them like he isn’t refreshing his Twitter notifications every 30 seconds, waiting impatiently for a reply.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. After just a few minutes, his feed pops up with a reply.

[Tweet text: @vnikiforov OOOOOHHHH MYYYY GOOOOOODDDDD]

Viktor blinks at the screen of his tablet, not really sure how to interpret this, but almost immediately, another reply appears.

[Tweet text: @vnikiforov sorry! I got a little overexcited there. But yes! I can definitely put you in contact with him!]

Then, another.

[Tweet text: @vnikiforov he’ll be even more mad at me if I put his contact info online publibly tho...can you turn on your DMs?]

He hadn’t expected it to be this easy, nor for Phichit to be so...eager to help him, but he isn’t about to complain. Viktor types in a reply, then goes to his account options to try to figure out how to turn on direct messaging.

[Tweet text: @PhichitPiano Sure thing, just a second…]

Almost the second he checks the option and saves the setting, he gets a notification for a new private message. Actually, a flood of them.

[Twitter messages read: Phichit: ok! yuuri’s email is y.katsuki@spbconservatory.edu.ru / Phichit: wait / Phichit: I didn’t even ask / Phichit: you’re not like / Phichit: mad...or anything...are you? / Phichit: please don’t be mad at him / Viktor: Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I loved the video. / Phichit: ok good!!! he’s very sensitive]

Viktor’s smiling and shaking his head a little at his tablet screen by the time Phichit sends the last message. He sends a quick ‘thanks for your help’ message, and goes to copy the email address—and that’s when he takes a closer look at the domain.

SPBConservatory.edu.ru…

That’s a Russian site...and SPB can only be St. Petersburg.

_No way._

Just to be sure, he types the website URL into his browser, and yeah, that’s the homepage for the conservatory on the other side of town. Which means...

Yuuri Katsuki, whoever he is, is a student at the St. Petersburg conservatory. _They’re living in the same city._ He could go see Yuuri _right now._

Viktor is on his feet and has his coat halfway on before he stops to think. It’s probably still winter break for them—he never went to college, so he’s not one hundred percent sure how the schedule works, but Mila started classes at the local university a few months ago, and he’s pretty sure she said she doesn’t have to go back until the middle of January. With one arm still in his coat, he goes back to his tablet, and double checks the calendar on the conservatory’s website, and finds that, while it _is_ still technically break, tomorrow is going to be the first day of classes for the new semester.

And besides, he belatedly realizes, it’s a Sunday, so there’s not likely to be anyone there regardless.

Viktor deflates a little bit, but Makkachin, having jumped down from the couch to sit expectantly by the door, barks to get his attention, thinking he’d gotten up to take her for a walk.

He laughs softly at his own impetuousness, and decides to do just that, taking a second to finish doing up his coat. “Alright, Makkachin, let’s go,” he tells her, “I probably need to get out for a little while too; I’m clearly not thinking straight. One day isn’t _so_ long to wait.” Even though it kind of feels like it, just now.

Makkachin tilts her head to the side while he speaks, looking for all intents and purposes like she understands every word, and he can’t help but smile and reach down to ruffle her ears. She tolerates this, but the moment the door is cracked open, she shoves her nose into the crack, forcing it open wide enough for her to get out, and trotting a few feet before looking back to make sure Viktor is following, tail wagging so hard that her entire body moves with it.

Viktor takes her down the street to where there’s a small undeveloped plot of scrubby grass, snow, and trees, and Makkachin delicately chooses a stick off the ground to bring him. He takes it from her, and before he’s even had a chance to throw it, she’s zipping halfway across the lot.

She’ll do this all day if he lets her, but it only takes about half an hour for Viktor to start getting bored and restless, so he calls her back to his side, and she comes obediently, if a little reluctantly.

He’s feeling a little more settled when he gets back home. He takes off his coat and lures Makkachin into the bathroom with a treat to wash the mud off her paws in the shower before she has a chance to jump up on any of the furniture. She doesn’t fight it, knowing that if she’s good there will be another treat in it for her, but she does stare sadly at Viktor the whole time.

“Okay, all done,” he tells her when the water runs clear, “Torture time is over, and you were very good.”

Immediately perking up, Makkachin jumps out of the shower and, leaving little puddles with every step, goes back to the kitchen to wait by the treat jar.

Viktor sighs, not feeling up to mopping, and figures he’ll just let that dry on its own. He gets Makkachin her treat, then goes back to the couch and opens up the email app on his tablet.

He doesn’t email Yuuri, though, mostly because he’s not sure yet how he wants to approach that conversation— _’hi, we’ve never met, but you made me experience emotions for the first time in years’—_ yeah, that would go over _real_ well.

No, instead he emails Yakov who, being in his seventies, has no idea how texting works, so this is the only way to contact him on short notice.

‘Hi Yakov,’ he types, ‘I’m going to have to miss practice tomorrow morning. I have to meet with someone and it’s very important. Sorry!’

He gets a ‘new email’ notification within fifteen minutes, and the reply simply reads ‘EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIPS ARE IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS. YOU CERTAINLY THE HELL ARE NOT SKIPPING TOMORROW. I DON’T CARE HOW IMPORTANT IT IS.’

Viktor rolls his eyes at this, reminding himself to show Yakov where the caps lock key is sometime, but it doesn’t much matter, as he’s not going to the rink tomorrow morning regardless of how much shit he’ll be in at afternoon practice.

Yakov will probably make him skate footwork exercises. Viktor _hates_ doingthat, but it’ll be worth it.

He _has_ to meet Yuuri.

 

-

  ** _Mid January 2016_**

Phichit has been acting weird since yesterday. Not in the vaguely guilty way he usually is after uploading yet another selfie to Instagram that has Yuuri making some unflattering face in the background after promising (again) to stop doing that. Nor is it the semi-apologetic manner he’d acted in right after Yuuri had (gently) confronted him about the video. No, this is something else, a new kind of weird, and it’s making him a little nervous.

For one, he’s asked if Yuuri has checked his school email, like, three times now. Every time, Yuuri reminds him that his account is linked to his phone, that he gets notifications every time he gets a message, so it’s kind of hard to _not_ check his email, and seriously, what is this about?

But Phichit’s been evasive every time he’s asked, and honestly, Phichit is _not_ good at keeping things to himself, so yeah, Yuuri’s a little nervous about whatever is going on.

He’s got a meeting with his advising professor at about the same time that Phichit’s first class starts, so they take the bus to the conservatory together, and Phichit tries to pretend like he isn’t glancing at Yuuri’s phone over his shoulder every time it flashes with a notification. Whatever it _is,_ Yuuri’s is caught halfway between dreading it and wanting it to happen already so he can _stop_ dreading it.

They eventually reach the school, a huge, old building with dramatic bas-relief carvings adorning its stone walls. There, they part ways, with Phichit saying, “Okay, bye, tell me if anything exciting happens!” as he heads down the hall to his class.

Yuuri shakes his head, determinedly trying to put it out of his mind, and starts up the stairs to his professor’s office.

He’s nervous—he always is, talking to her—but it’s a good meeting. They talk a little bit about his goals for the semester, and he explains that he’d like to move away from composing for a full band or orchestra, to focusing on chamber groups with more modern instrumentation. She’s enthusiastic about this idea, says that it will really work with his style, and that she’s excited to see what he comes up with.

When he comes out of the office, he’s almost managed to completely forget about Phichit and his cryptic hints.

Since he doesn’t have an actual class until late that afternoon, Yuuri retrieves his cello from his instrument locker and takes it up to the top floor of the building and into his favorite practice room, where he sits down and settles in to play for a while.

He’s been playing the cello since he was smaller than the instrument, and picking up the bow always feels a little like coming home. He goes through routine exercises, things he’s been playing for years and years, scales, arpeggios, simple little tunes that any beginner could play. His first teacher, Minako, would always say that the key to good musicianship is strong fundamentals, and he’s tried to abide by that bit of advice. And besides that, it’s comforting.

After a while though, he moves on, going through his favorite parts of concertos and orchestra pieces he’s learned over the years, and improvising new melodies. He’s always enjoyed this, playing an instrument he loves without the pressure of performance or an audience. Yuuri has never really performed well. It’s part of the reason he ended up going with music composition instead of music performance, though he thinks that even if he didn’t suffer from debilitating anxiety any time anyone watched him play, he’d have still gone with composition.

When he’s on his own, though, it’s easy to lose himself in his instrument.

He’s a little startled when the doorknob rattles, and he looks up to see two familiar faces in the now-open door.

“Yuuri,” says Leo, “I thought we might find you up here.”

“Leo, Guang-Hong, it’s so good to see you; how were your breaks?” Yuuri asks, brightening at the sight of his friends.

“Really nice,” Guang-Hong chirps, “Relaxing. I got to catch up with a bunch of people I went to school with.”

“Mine was good too,” Leo says, “I wanted to bring back some of my abuela’s tamales for y’all, but they wouldn’t let me take them through customs.”

Yuuri laughs. “You always talk about how good they are, how we _have_ to try them, but then you never bring any.”

Guang-Hong elbows Leo playfully and adds, “Yeah, I’m starting to think they’re not a real thing and you’re just making them up.”

“They’re real, and they’re _amazing,_ promise! I’ll get you some, one day, if it’s the last thing I do!” Leo insists, and they all laugh this time.

Yuuri met Leo de la Iglesia during his first semester at the St. Petersburg conservatory, when he hadn’t known anyone and was feeling pretty alone. Leo had been in the same boat, though, a first year international student from Texas, and they’d bonded pretty quickly over that.

Guang-Hong Ji had joined them the next semester, at the same time Phichit had transferred over. He had graduated from his high school in Beijing a year early, and was one of the youngest students at the conservatory. He’d initially approached Yuuri for cello lessons at the recommendation of his adviser, who was teaching a class of Guang-Hong’s at the time. Leo had met him during one of these lessons, and taken him under his wing immediately. Now, the two of them are just about inseparable.

“I heard you had to stay here over the break,” Guang-Hong remarks, “You weren’t too lonely, were you?”

Yuuri shrugs, because he was, kind of, but Leo says, “ _Apparently_ he was busy making viral Youtube videos.”

“Oh yeah, I saw that,” Guang-Hong remarks.

“I wouldn’t say _viral._ ” Yuuri sighs.

“Almost five hundred thousand views, now,” Leo counters.

“Anyway, Phichit was the one who made the video, even _after_ I asked him not to.”

Guang-Hong laughs. “That sounds like Phichit.”

The door opens again, and the pianist in question steps into the room.

“What sounds like Phichit?” He asks.

“Using Yuuri’s music to make him internet famous without his permission and against his will,” Leo answers, and Phichit grins.

“Oh, yeah, that. I did do that.”

“I’m still mad at you for that, by the way,” Yuuri interjects, but there’s no force behind the words.

“I only shared it with the entire internet because your stuff is so _good;_ it’s not fair for you to keep it all to yourself,” Phichit announces breezily, and Yuuri can’t help but breathe out a laugh and shake his head at that. His friends are sweet, but he’s _really_ not that great.

They spend the next hour or so just talking, telling stories about what happened over break, what classes they’re taking this semester, and it’s really nice. Yuuri loves his friends, he really does, and he had missed this.

It’s after a particularly loud burst of laughter from the four of them that there’s a knock on the door.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Leo calls back, “We’ll try to keep it down.”

“Ah, it’s not that,” Comes a reply, muffled by the thick wooden door, “I’m looking for Yuuri Katsuki? A professor told me I might find him here?” Yuuri blinks. Someone’s looking for _him?_

“Oh my god,” Phichit whispers, his eyes going wide. “If this is who I think it is...” He’s the one closest to the door, and he scrambles out of his chair to open it.

On the other side of the door, looking a little startled at how suddenly it had swung open…

Yuuri tries to take a deep breath, but it feels like his lungs have been compressed to the size of grapes. This can’t be happening.

It’s five-time world champion figure skater and Olympic gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov.

For a long moment, everyone is frozen. Eventually, Phichit is the one to break the tension.

“You know what, I think I left a cake baking in the recital hall. Leo, Guang-Hong, I need your help.”

“Wait, what?” Leo asks, while Guang-Hong just looks confused, but in a moment, Phichit has grabbed both of them by the elbows and dragged them from the room, past an equally confused looking Viktor, and leaving Yuuri alone.

...With five-time world champion figure skater and Olympic gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor is speechless for just another second, then says, “Your friends seem nice.”

“They are,” Yuuri replies weakly, even though he’s rather upset with them for abandoning him, at the moment.

“Can I come in?” Viktor asks, and when Yuuri nods jerkily, he steps inside and closes the door. Immediately, the already-small room seems to shrink until the walls are pressing in on him.

“So, I saw the video,” Viktor says, his tone unreadable.

“Oh no,” Yuuri murmurs, and if he couldn’t meet Viktor’s eyes before, he _definitely_ can’t, now. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and, honestly, why did he even _write_ that piece, all it’s going to do is get him yelled at by someone whose work he admires, and probably sued for copyright infringement, and he can’t afford a lawyer, so he’ll end up in jail, and probably be deported from Russia, and his family will be so ashamed of him…

Before Yuuri’s thoughts can spiral any further, Viktor clears his throat, and says, “And I’d really like it if you would work with me and write my music for this coming season.”

Wait. Yuuri blinks. This doesn’t sound like anger. He risks a glance up, but it lasts just long enough to confirm that Viktor’s face isn’t angry—at all. In fact, he’s smiling softly, but he somehow looks a little sad, too.

“You’re...not upset?”

There’s a touch of hurt in Viktor’s voice when he remarks, “Your friend asked me that, too. Of course I’m not upset; why would I be?”

‘ _Your friend._ ’ Oh, _Phichit._ Of course. Well, this explains why he’d been acting so weird, at least.

Yuuri can only shrug in reply, grin awkwardly, and Viktor sighs a little.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, but intense. “I thought the piece you wrote was—amazing. Better than the original. I can’t imagine having anyone but you write my program music for my last season.”

It hadn’t really registered the first time he’d said it, but now it does, and Yuuri feels himself blushing even more deeply. Viktor not only liked the video, he wants to _hire_ Yuuri to compose for him.

“I, um,” Yuuri says, “I...Are you sure you want _me_?” He asks, finally gathering the courage to look Viktor in the eye. While he does, he runs his fingers through his hair, pulling back from his face, a nervous habit of his.

“Positive,” Viktor answers, and looks like he’s about to say more when he notices that Yuuri is looking straight at him, now. Their eyes meet and lock into place.

There’s no way he could have predicted the reaction he gets to that—the way Viktor’s face lights up when they make eye contact, his mouth turning up into a real, broad smile, a small blush rising in his own cheeks, his _pupils dilating_.

“It’s _you,_ ” Viktor says, his voice barely even a whisper, “I _never_ thought this would happen.”

Yuuri hasn’t been quite so confused in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think. 
> 
> I've got a couple of notes re: this fic's details/schedule:
> 
> Regarding the playlist: It's approximately 3.5 hours of music that sounds like what I think Yuuri would write at some point in his career, in this AU. Any piece that's described herein is probably based off of something on that playlist! (Please ask if you're curious). 
> 
> At the time of posting this, I have a fair bit of this written in advance (~60k) that's presently going through beta. I'm going to try to update approximately weekly, at least until I catch up to the point where I'm at with the writing; no promises after that.
> 
> My experience with music composition is limited to the year of AP music theory I took waaay back in high school. My experience with figure skating is limited to the ice skating for babies for adults (as I call it) class that I'm presently enrolled in. If you're knowledgeable about either of these subjects and you notice a huge, glaring mistake I've made, please drop me a line so I can make corrections!
> 
> There is, apparently, a real music conservatory in St Petersburg. The one in this fic is not that one.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday so have chapter 2 a few days early <3

_**October 2014** _

 

He’s in New York for Skate America, and Viktor is _dreading_ the evening to come.

The competition is over; it had ended the previous day, in fact. He’d taken gold and it hadn’t even been difficult. However, due to an oversight while buying the plane tickets, he’s stuck here an extra night with Georgi and Mila, who were also assigned to this competition.

This wouldn’t be so bad, normally, except that Georgi _won’t leave him alone._

“I get _plenty_ of dates without your help,” Viktor insists.

Georgi rolls his eyes. “You get plenty of _Grindr_ _hookups,_ ” He corrects pedantically, “That’s not the same thing.”

“Why does this matter to you?” Viktor asks, already exasperated by this conversation.

“It matters because I can’t stand by and let you die alone!” Georgi says, feigning hurt, like he really believes he’s doing this _entirely_ for Viktor’s benefit.

Viktor just sighs, knowing he doesn’t have the energy to win this fight. Georgi’s one of those people who just _can’t_ get it. He has so much passion for everything he does that people like Viktor—people who have a limited amount of emotional energy and need to carefully ration it for the really important things—don’t make sense to him.

Honestly, the feeling is mutual.

That sense of apathy, of constant exhaustion and disinterest and disconnect that he’d started feeling almost two years ago...it’s still there. If anything, it’s gotten worse. So, no, he hasn’t really done anything that could be called ‘dating’ lately, but he doesn’t think it would work out for him right now, anyway. He spends so much time skating that he barely has enough time for his _dog,_ let alone another person.

As for the hookups...well, he didn’t lie to Georgi. He has no trouble finding someone if he’s in the mood to fuck, especially now that there are apps for just that purpose. It’s nice, sometimes, to lose himself in physical sensation, in a stranger’s body, just so he can feel anything at all.

He’s always gone by morning, anyway.

“If I go out with this friend of yours tonight, will you stop nagging me about this?” Viktor asks, admitting defeat. He’s tried everything he can think of to get out of this, but his rinkmate is nothing if not persistent.

Georgi smiles widely, recognizing his victory. “I promise! Don’t worry—I’ll have Brent set up everything, so all you’ll have to do is show up. No stress.”

Viktor wrinkles his nose. _Brent._ He’s never met a Brent he liked. But one evening of unpleasant company will be worth it, he thinks, if it’ll get Georgi off his back about his love life.

He tries to avoid the subject for the rest of the afternoon by taking a nap in his uncomfortable hotel bed, but Georgi, either uncaring or oblivious, keeps prattling on about Brent, the American student who went to college with him, Brent, who’s studying theater at Julliard now, Brent, who is totally hot, he promises, not at hot as Anya, but definitely Viktor’s type.

It’s evening, now, and he’s been coerced into nice clothes and dropped off at the designated meeting place. The man who walks over, grinning broadly when he spots Viktor, is lanky and angular, with a mess of honey-brown hair and freckles, and Viktor only has to take one look at Brent to know that he is _not_ his type.

Still, Viktor is polite, gracious, and pays for dinner at the—frankly atrocious—bistro Brent had picked. Fortunately, he’s saved the trouble of having to carry a conversation. Unfortunately, this is because Brent _loves_ to talk.

That’s how Viktor finds out, a little to his dismay, that they’re going to an informal concert at the school a few blocks away. He’d been hoping he could say goodbye after dinner and go back to the hotel, never to be nagged by Georgi again.

Still, if he _has_ to do something with _Brent_ , a concert isn’t a terrible option.

The ensemble is playing a series of student compositions, and Viktor listens attentively, half because, well, he _does_ actually really like music, and half because it means he won’t have to interact with Brent, who has not _remotely_ picked up on his disinterest, leaning into him, grabbing his arm, putting a hand on his knee.

He’s beginning to wonder if this is worth it. Really, the company is a shame, because he likes the pieces he hears, the last one especially, but it’s hard to focus when Brent keeps whispering in his ear, things like, _that’s my friend Celia on the viola, there, she’s a catty little thing but I love her,_ and other tidbits that he can’t ever imagining himself caring about or even wanting to know.

There’s a part of Viktor that knows he’s being unfair, that he came into this expecting to be miserable and that it’s nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. Brent is…nice, sure, but he’s _so obviously_ the kind of person that _Georgi_ hangs out with, which is great for him and all, but it _really_ doesn’t work for Viktor.

He’s relieved when the ensemble stands and bows as a group, indicating the end of the performance, as Viktor plans to lie, to say that his flight takes off early the next morning, and make his escape. But somehow—and he’s really not sure how he let it get this far—he ends up being dragged to a party thrown by the ensemble’s student conductor, who has rented out an entire bar for the musicians and their friends.

He’s been there for over an hour already, drinking just enough to be able to maintain a pleasant facade but not so much that he won’t have his wits about him when he finally manages to make his exit. Brent is having a great time showing off his celebrity date to his friends and being grabby while he does it, and having had just about enough of this, Viktor excuses himself to the bathroom.

He’s washed his hands and made his way back to the main part of the bar, where he’s planning to find Brent and tell him, definitively, for sure this time, that he needs to get back to his hotel, when his eyes catch on someone who definitely _isn’t_ his date.

He’s shorter than Viktor and Asian, maybe Japanese. His hair is slicked back from his face, which is _beautiful,_ and the white dress shirt and black pants he’s wearing fit him like a glove. Viktor only has to take one look at this gorgeous stranger to know that he is _exactly_ his type.

It’s something in the way he moves, something graceful and captivating, and Viktor can’t look away. The stranger’s eyes flick up to his, and catching Viktor staring, he smiles. There’s a frank sensuality to his gaze, to the curve of his lips, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Viktor _wants._

The other man changes course and walks straight over to where Viktor is standing, and boldly slides a hand around his waist.

“Dance with me?” He requests, but to Viktor it’s a command, and he’s powerless to refuse.

His arms go to the man’s hips like they’re magnetically drawn there, and the smile he flashes Viktor is full of promise. Minutes—or maybe hours—pass as they move together, his world shrinking to the pounding rhythm coming from the speakers and the heat of the body pressed against his own.

Then, the music changes, and a seductive guitar riff plays, the opening to something sexy, a Spanish dance, and before Viktor really registers what’s happening, the stranger is spinning Viktor out, taking one of his hands and wrapping the other close around his shoulders.

Viktor grins—he knows where this is going. The music picks up and they go through the steps of the paso doble smoothly, like they’ve been practicing this together for years. Despite being smaller, the other man leads him through the dance like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him, effortlessly twirling and spinning with Viktor until he’s dizzy from it—and from how much he doesn’t want this to end.

The song ends in a screaming crescendo of trumpets, and the other man finishes by dipping Viktor so low that he’s almost parallel to the floor, and he’d be in danger of falling if he didn’t have one of his legs securely hooked around the stranger’s waist.

“Wow,” Viktor says, once he’s upright again, “Where did you learn to move like that?”

“Ballroom dancing for beginners class last semester,” he replies, and Viktor laughs, thinking it must be a joke—he’s got to be a dance student or something; almost everyone at this party is attending an arts school, after all.

But he just smiles again and refuses to elaborate, that sensual mouth turning up at the corners, and the only thing Viktor can think about is how good it would feel to kiss him, right then and there. But he’s not about to show how much he wants it, not yet at least, so he just returns the look with one of his own, not missing the way the other man’s eyes go to his lips when he does.

They dance together for another three songs, only exchanging a few more words, but this is the strongest connection he’s felt to another human being in...wow, it’s been years. He’s on the verge of asking if the other man will go back to his hotel with him—he’s done playing hard to get; he’s almost certain that he will _literally_ explode if he can’t get this boy alone, out of his clothes, and into his bed, to feel the heat of the skin that’s been so tantalizingly hidden behind the thin white fabric of his dress shirt. He’ll _pay_ Georgi to leave the room if he has to.

“Come home with me,” the stranger says, interrupting his thought, and Viktor’s heart pounds in his chest to hear his own desire so mirrored by the other man.

He wants to say yes—god, he’s never wanted anything more, but something, some sense of propriety, makes him pause and look at the other man directly. His eyes are glassy, and a little unfocused, and when he’s spoken to Viktor his words have been soft around the edges—he’d put it up to English being his second language until now, but suddenly he’s not so sure.

“How much have you had to drink?” Viktor asks, resigning himself to being the responsible one, and hating every second of it.

“I don’t know. A lot? Why does it matter?” The stranger asks, an edge in his voice that’s almost petulant.

Viktor sighs, and takes a step back. No matter how much he wants this man, which is _a lot,_ he isn’t the type of person to take advantage of someone so obviously drunk.

The other man tries to follow him, pressing his body flush against Viktor’s, and taking another step back is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“I’ll tell you what,” Viktor says, placing a hand on the stranger’s shoulder to keep him from pressing up against him again—he doesn’t think he can handle that and still be able to say no. “I’ll _take_ you home, but I can’t come in with you.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because you’re drunk,” Viktor explains as patiently as he can.

“So? I know what I’m doing,” the man insists.

“And I know what _I’m_ doing,” Viktor says. ‘ _Which is getting you a cab and making sure you get home safely—and_ that’s all _,’_ he adds silently.

He moves his hand to the stranger’s elbow, steering him gently toward the door, despite his weak protests that of ‘why did we stop dancing’ and ‘I’m _fine._ ’ On the way out, he spots Brent, who’s glaring daggers at him, by the bar. Viktor makes an ‘oops’ face, and shrugs—He’d completely forgotten about his _actual_ date. He’s certain this makes him come off as a _gigantic_ asshole, but, well, Brent _was_ kind of awful. He keeps walking.

The sweat chills on his body the moment he steps through the door, and he’s glad it’s been an unusually warm day for October, or they’d both be completely miserable without their coats. It’s just on the border of ‘uncomfortably chilly’ for Viktor, but, well, he’s Russian. The other man, however, clearly isn’t used to this, and starts shivering almost immediately and leans into Viktor for warmth. Viktor lets him, putting an arm around his shoulders and tucking him in close to his side. It’s an exquisite form of torture, having him this near and knowing it’s all he’ll get, but he indulges it because it _is_ all he’ll get.

Luckily, a vacant cab comes along after just a minute or so of them waiting on the curb, and Viktor bundles the stranger into the car as gently as he can.

“Where to?” the driver asks, warily eyeing the obviously very drunk man in the backseat of his cab.

“Where do you live,” Viktor prompts the other man after he doesn’t reply for a moment, and he starts rattling off what’s probably perfectly clear to anyone who knows New York, but sounds like absolute gibberish to Viktor. But the driver nods, and takes off.

It’s a short ride to the other man’s apartment, maybe fifteen minutes, and it’s quiet—he seems to have gone from the ‘dancey and flirty’ phase of being drunk to the ‘tired and zoned out’ phase.

The cab eventually pulls to a stop in front of a comfortably shabby apartment building.

“Can you wait for me?” Viktor asks the driver, and gestures to the other man, “I’ve got to make sure he gets home alright, but then I’ll be back.”

“Sure, but I have to leave the meter running,” he replies. It’s both a statement of policy and a warning not to take too long, a warning Viktor plans to heed no matter how much he’d rather do otherwise.

He nods agreement and gets out of the car. He goes around to the other side and helps the stranger out. Viktor has to put an arm around him to support him as he reels and sways with alcohol and exhaustion.

“Which floor?” he asks, as they approach the front entrance to the building. It’s unlocked, so Viktor pushes it open and ushers the other man inside.

“Second,” he replies, then, a bit of sharpness and the echo of the smile he’d had on the dance floor returning to his face, “Did you decide to come in with me after all?”

Viktor takes a deep breath, and forces out the words, “No, I’m not doing that.”

He helps the stranger up the flights of stairs to his floor, but stops at the landing.

“Why are you stopping?” he asks, when Viktor doesn’t respond to the tug on his arm.

“Because,” he says, “If I get as far as your door and you ask me in again, I won’t be able to say no.”

“Then don’t,” the man suggests, and for a long moment, it’s the best idea Viktor has ever heard. Then, he takes another deep breath and shakes his head. Then, before he can stop himself, he reaches out to slip the man’s phone from his back pocket, refusing to let his fingers linger.

“If you’re still interested when you’re sober, though,” he says, programming his number into the phone’s contacts, “Give me a call, okay? I’d like to see you again.”

The man doesn’t reply as Viktor presses his phone into his hand, and, before he has time to waver, he turns and walks back down the stairs and out to the waiting car.

It’s only when he’s shutting the door behind himself that he realizes that he never asked for the man’s name.

That’s okay, he thinks. He hadn’t been imagining the chemistry between them—there had...there had really been something there. Surely, he’ll call, maybe tomorrow, and they can meet up again, properly this time, even if he has to fly from St. Petersburg to New York on his own time to do it.

He gets back to the hotel to find out that Mila and Georgi know the whole story, thanks to a phone call from Brent.

Georgi is miffed that Viktor blew off his friend for some drunk guy at a party and won’t speak to him for days, which Viktor counts as a win, since he’s also not trying to set him up on any more dates. Yakov is disgusted with the whole thing, as is Yuri when he hears about it once they all fly home, but Mila finds his situation hilarious and teases him mercilessly—every time his phone rings, she asks if it’s the boy from the party, which wouldn’t be so irritating if Viktor wasn’t hoping the same thing himself.

But weeks pass, and he doesn’t call.

Eventually, Viktor stops expecting it.

 

-

 

_**Mid January 2016** _

Yuuri shuts the door to his apartment and immediately leans back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest.

Today has been...overwhelming.

“Yuuri, you’re back!” Phichit exclaims, walking over from the kitchen where he’d been, then, seeing his roommate’s pose and expression, immediately asks, “Do you need anything? Do you want to talk about it?”

In that moment, Yuuri is so _incredibly_ grateful for his best friend that any lingering resentment over the video, his leaving earlier, or his giving his email to Viktor Nikiforov without his permission, is washed away.

“I’m still processing,” he says, finally, and Phichit nods sympathetically.

“Well, if you get hungry, I made _way_ too much rice for dinner, and you’re welcome to the leftovers,” he replies, and leaves Yuuri to his thoughts. He feels another surge of affection for his friend, who is probably _dying_ for details, but is willing to let Yuuri have the time he needs to sort through things in his own head.

Slowly, he picks himself up off the floor, and makes his way to his room, setting his bag down inside the door and collapsing into bed without turning on the lights.

A lot has happened today.

After all, Viktor…

Viktor Nikiforov, who he’s rather admired ever since he’d watched that first interview, had liked the music he wrote for his program, had sought _him_ out, and wants to pay _him_ to compose the music for his program next season. And the whole time he’d been acting like he _knows_ Yuuri, which can’t be possible. He thinks he’d remember if he’d ever met _Viktor Nikiforov_ before. But the way he had talked, little things, hints dropped, things referenced...

At one point Viktor had even said something in passing about, “Last time we met in New York...” And then he’d looked at Yuuri so _expectantly_ that he’d had to rake through his own memories of that time, trying to come up with some hint that they may have crossed paths, or...anything, but he didn’t—and still doesn’t—have a clue.

Well, he was hardly the only young Japanese man with glasses in the city—Viktor was probably mistaking him for someone else, anyway. He’d responded by smiling awkwardly and dropping the subject, so he’s sure Viktor figured it out.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and raises his head to take off his glasses and set them aside; they’ve started digging uncomfortably into the side of his face. He’s definitely reading too much into it. Viktor is a friendly, naturally flirty person. He’s seen that in the interviews, too. This must just be how he is.

Still, Viktor had stayed and talked to him for almost an hour, asking him all sorts of things, like he wanted to know everything about Yuuri. His favorite composers, what instruments he plays, how he’s liking St. Petersburg, all about his hometown...

And Viktor had listened attentively to all his answers— _actually_ listened _—_ like Yuuri was more to him than a near-complete stranger, pressing for detail or asking him to elaborate on things he’d thought were interesting. He hadn’t offered much detail in return, but as curious as Yuuri was becoming, he had been too afraid to ask questions of him—he didn’t want to seem invasive while he was talking to a celebrity.

Then he’d talked about the season, explained that he was going to retire after this one, which _really_ puts the pressure on Yuuri to make something good. People pay attention to Viktor; it’s hard not to. He’s a professional in a relatively obscure sport, but his rockstar-like charisma means that he has a _lot_ of fans. And the way he had kept looking at Yuuri, like he was amazing, the only person in the world who mattered...if he’s like that with everyone, then it’s no surprise he’s popular.

Yuuri feels himself blush a little just thinking about it.

The point is, though, that there will be a lot of media attention on Viktor once he announces his retirement, and, by proxy, on Yuuri’s music, if he decides to accept Viktor’s offer.

Which he will.

He hadn’t said anything for sure, yet, or signed any contracts, but there’s no doubt in his mind that he is going to write Viktor’s program music. Everything else aside, it would be a fantastic move for his career. An opportunity he can’t afford to pass up.

Personally, he feels like he’d agree to just about anything to get Viktor to look at him like that again.

 

-

 

_**Mid January 2016** _

 

It’s the middle of the night, and, again, Viktor can’t sleep.

He’s thinking about Yuuri.

Specifically, he’s trying to reconcile the quiet, almost timid person he’d met today with the one who had so boldly taken hold of Viktor’s waist and led him through the paso doble over a year ago.

He’s afraid he’s made a mistake, that maybe Yuuri has an identical twin somewhere, somehow, but, no, he’s _certain_ he’s not wrong.

Finally giving up on sleep, Viktor takes out his laptop. Phichit was a great source of information before, maybe he will be again. He searches for him on Instagram, to see if he has any pictures of Yuuri, any clues or hints.

Phichit—who, in his defense, is very photogenic—takes a _lot_ of selfies. Luckily for Viktor, a good number of them also include Yuuri. These most recent ones are in St. Petersburg; he recognizes places around the city and the Cyrillic on the signs. Yuuri’s there in the background in a lot of pictures, and the sight makes Viktor smile.

In this one, he’s sprawled across a couch in the background of the photo, his laptop perched on his chest and his bare feet dangling over the end. In the next one, he’s outside in the snow, looking absolutely miserable behind Phichit (who is smiling brightly into the camera), with his hood drawn up halfway over his face. Here, he’s splayed out across an overstuffed chair, cell phone in one hand, his other arm buried elbow-deep in a bag of chips.

He’s not just lurking in the background in all of them, though. Phichit gets him involved in plenty of his selfies, and there are pictures of the two of them laughing together or with their other friends, pictures of Yuuri with his arm around Phichit, one with Phichit leaning back against Yuuri’s chest as he smiles.

Viktor frowns a little, his heart sinking. They’re obviously very close, and appear to live together. Is Phichit Yuuri’s boyfriend? Roommate?

Selfishly, he hopes for the latter.

He’s been scrolling through pictures for a while, feeling kind of invasive, but not creepy enough to stop, when he sees it.

It’s a photo of Yuuri alone. He’s wearing his glasses in this one—Viktor doesn’t know what ended up happening to them later, but he wasn’t wearing them when they met at the party—but everything else is just as he remembers, down to the last detail: The perfectly fitted pants and shirt, the hair slicked back from his face. It’s captioned, “My roommate/bestie @katsudon-yuuri all dressed up (and looking fine!!) to see one of his compositions performed! Wish I could go too! #julliard #bestfriend #hessotalented #toohottotrot”

Just to be certain, Viktor double-checks the date on the photo against the date of the 2014 Skate America competition, and yeah, it’s a perfect match.

That clears up one of his concerns—he’s still not sure if Yuuri and Phichit are just friends but at least there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind now that Yuuri is the person he danced with that night, who had tried to take him home. And he’s also the person who couldn’t look him in the eyes for more than a few seconds while they were talking today.

He needs a sounding board on this. He quickly runs through a list of people he might talk to. Yakov he dismisses immediately. Georgi, too, given that he’s biased against Yuuri after what happened with Brent. Mila he considers for a long time, but ultimately decides against, because she wouldn’t be able to take him seriously. Yuri is another non-starter, on grounds of him being fourteen.

That really leaves just one person he can ask, someone who will take him seriously, isn’t fourteen, doesn’t hate Yuuri on principle, and, if he doesn’t necessarily have _good_ advice, it’ll be better than nothing.

Viktor picks up his phone and dials Christophe Giacometti.

He picks up on the sixth ring, and answers thickly, “Hello? Viktor?”

“Chris, hi,” Viktor says.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Chris asks, then he murmurs something in French to someone else and Viktor, with his limited knowledge of the language, is only able to make out his own name and ‘go back to sleep.’

“You’re two time zones behind me; you’re already asleep?”

Chris replies, “All that means is that it’s _midnight_ here instead of two in the morning. A better question is why _you’re_ awake.”

“Can’t sleep, I’m having boy troubles,” he says flippantly, like this isn’t something deadly serious to him. Serious enough to completely forget that it’s the middle of the night and call his friend, apparently. Viktor feels a _little_ bit bad about that, but not bad enough to end the call.

“Okay, okay, color me intrigued,” Chris admits, and Viktor hears the rustling of sheets and blankets, then footsteps as Chris presumably leaves the room so he doesn’t wake up his boyfriend.

After a moment, Chris speaks again. “So, the great Viktor Nikiforov is calling me for advice on how to talk to boys. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Viktor breathes out a laugh, and begins, “Remember that party I told you I went to in New York, and the guy I danced with?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chris says, stretching out the words to cover up a yawn, “Drunk party boy. The one who never called you back. You were hung up on him for _weeks;_ it was hilarious.”

Months, actually, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, I kind of...found him again,” Viktor says.

“Oh? Do tell?”

“Did you see that video that’s going around, the one with the composer who rewrote my 2012 program music?” Viktor asks.

“Of course I have. Everyone in the skating community has. What does that have to do with...Wait, the composer is drunk party boy?”

“Yeah,” Viktor sighs, a little impressed that Chris put it together so quickly. “And he lives in St. Petersburg now.”

“Is your life a romcom?” Chris asks. “You meet the boy at a party, have a _connection,_ then you leave the country and think you’ll never see him again, only to have him reach out to you over a year later in the most _dramatic_ way I’ve ever heard of, and now you’re in the same city.”

“Romcoms get happy endings,” Viktor quips, then, more somberly, goes on, “And I don’t know if things are going to work out like that for me.”

“Aww, why not?”

“I met with Yuuri today—Yuuri, that’s his name,” Viktor begins, but Chris cuts him off there.

“Yuri? Like that mouthy kid who trains with Yakov? That’s weird.”

“Not quite, it’s _Yuu_ ri,” He emphasizes the difference in pronunciation, “He’s Japanese.”

“Tomato, tomato,” Chris replies, and now that he’s pointed it out, it _is_ a little weird how similar their names are. He’ll have to give Russian Yuri a suitably embarrassing nickname, as soon as he can think of a good one.

“Anyway,” Viktor goes on, “I met with him today, and he was _nothing_ like he was the night we met. He acted like he was _terrified_ of me, and wouldn’t talk about the party.”

“Well, he’s probably embarrassed,” Chris replies easily, “I mean, the guy gets super drunk, propositions you and you _reject_ him.”

“Only because he _was_ so drunk!” Viktor says.

“I know, and you did the right thing, but no matter how good your intentions were, that’s kind of an uncomfortable position to be in,” Chris explains, and Viktor sighs.

He’s right, of course. Viktor hadn’t really even considered that Yuuri would be embarrassed over it. He has no reason to be, not from Viktor’s point of view.

“You’re right,” Viktor admits after a long moment. “What do you think I should do?”

“Viktor,” Chris starts, “I’ve known you for, what, ten years now? Something like that? And in that time, have you _ever_ known me to have good advice about this?”

Viktor laughs, and says, “Says the guy who’s had a boyfriend for over a year.”

“Johann doesn’t count, bad pick-up lines and dick pics _work_ on him, somehow. It doesn’t sound like that’s the case with your Yuuri.”

_His Yuuri._ He likes the sound of that. Still, when he thinks back to their conversation earlier, Yuuri’s stammering and blushing, the way he would shrink back a little whenever Viktor leaned in toward him, he’s sure Chris is right again. _Maybe_ he can chock that up to the embarrassment, but between how shy he looked in most of Phichit’s photos of him and his friend referring to him as ‘sensitive,’ Viktor doubts it.

“No,” he says at last, “No I really don’t think that’s the case.”

“You’ll think of something,” Chris assures him over another yawn. “You’re Viktor Nikiforov, you always do.”

Viktor’s not so sure of that himself. Still, he should really let Chris go back to sleep.

“Thanks, Chris,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Chris replies, “Remember me when my advice gets you laid.”

Viktor laughs. “I will absolutely not do that,” he states firmly, then, more congenially, “Good night.”

“’Night,” Chris answers, and the line goes dead.

That conversation was able to put some of Viktor’s concerns at ease, but he’s got an underlying, deeper fear that’s been building, half-formed, but now makes itself known.

Maybe Yuuri won’t mention the party because it didn’t mean anything to him. That Viktor was just a pretty face he’d seen at a party, and hasn’t given any thought to since. It doesn’t explain the music, nor the way he’d acted today, but...Well, this is twice now that Yuuri’s been able to snap Viktor out of the fog he’s been living in for years.

First the dance. He’d gone out expecting to be bored and unhappy all evening, and, thanks to a drunk stranger, had ended up having one of the best nights of his life. Then, Yuuri composes a piece, a piece written for Viktor, that managed to give him back his inspiration.

He can’t stand the thought that he means nothing to Yuuri, not when Yuuri’s _already_ started to consume his thoughts and imaginings.

_He’s someone I could fall in love with,_ Viktor realizes, and it’s a scary thought.

Falling in love isn’t a thing that’s ever been a serious possibility for him before. When he was younger, the ice was everything to him. And more recently—well, he can’t really love someone when he can barely feel anything at all.

But this...

This is new.

It’s new, it’s a little bit terrifying, and it’s _wonderful._ No matter his doubts, Viktor _can’t_ just let this go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Depending on how busy my beta is, I should have the next chapter ready to go this time next week.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! Here's chapter 3

_**Mid January 2016** _

 

Yuuri is known for reading and rereading his emails—whether they’re to his professors or his parents—to make sure they’re _perfect,_ without any embarrassing spelling mistakes, no grammatical errors, appropriate formality, but this is a new level of obsessive care, even for him.

He’s typed and retyped the opening too many times to remember already.

 _Dear Mr. Nikiforov_ ,

No, that’s too stuffy, he doesn’t want to come off like that.

 _Good morning Viktor_ ,

No, he can’t use that, what if he reads it in the afternoon? Should he even _use_ Viktor’s first name? They have just met, and he’s trying to be professional… But Viktor had spent their whole meeting the day before calling Yuuri by _his_ given name, and it seems like it might be rude not to do the same.

 _How’s it going Viktor_ ,

Not a chance, that one’s _way_ too familiar.

And on and on, until he eventually settles on a simple ‘Hi Viktor,’ and moves onto the body of the email.

Eventually, over half an hour after he’s started the email, he’s finished the message, letting Viktor know that he would definitely be interested in writing, recording, and producing his program music for the upcoming season, and could they possibly schedule a meeting to go over details? Yuuri wants to make sure that he has a good idea of exactly what Viktor wants.

After agonizing over the wording, he finally signs off with a simple, ‘Best, Yuuri,’ takes a deep breath, and hits send.

He goes through his classes and assignments the rest of the day as normally as possible, like he _isn’t_ checking his phone every few minutes for a response.

It finally comes late that evening, just as Yuuri had eaten dinner and started reading the a book on chamber music he’s supposed to be studying for class.

‘ _Yuuri!’_ The email begins. ‘ _Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I hardly ever remember to check my email. It might be easier to text me if you need me? Did I remember to give you my phone number yesterday?’_

He had, actually, but Yuuri had had a minor freak-out about even considering texting Viktor, and had opted for email instead.

‘ _Anyway, I’m so glad you’ve decided to work with me! I’d love to get together with you to chat about my plans for the season. Are you free for dinner tomorrow? I’ll be in practice until about 6, but anytime after that, I’m all yours.’_

Even over email, he’s able to make Yuuri’s heart pound in his chest. Especially when he reads the signature line:

‘ _Love, Viktor’_

Phichit chooses that moment to walk into the living room, and his eyes go from the blush on Yuuri’s face to the phone in his hand. “Oh my god, he emailed you back. What did he say?”

Yuuri just holds out the phone for his roommate to read the message, a little impressed that he’d put it together so quickly. Phichit bounces over to take it, eagerly snatching it from Yuuri’s hand and scrolling through the message.

“Oh my god,” he says again, as he hands the device back to Yuuri, “He’s asking you out.”

“What? No, he’s just being nice,” Yuuri counters, hunching in on himself and breaking eye contact.

Phichit rolls his eyes and says, “Yuuri, we’ve been friends for three years now, and in that time, how often have I had to tell you when someone was hitting on you?”

“I still think you’re making most of those up,” Yuuri insists.

“Remember that clarinet player? The one who I found _literally_ crying on the stairs because you had rejected him?”

“Oh, yeah, that guy,” Yuuri mutters. “I swear, I thought he just wanted to be friends, and I really _did_ have an exam that evening!”

“The point is, Yuuri, I don’t think you’re very good at picking up on these things, so please, _please,_ just trust me when I tell you that _Viktor Nikiforov is into you._ ”

But Yuuri just shakes his head and replies, “There’s just...no way that’s possible.”

“And why not?”

Yuuri gestures expansively. “This is all just professional. He just wants me to write his music; I don’t think he actually cares about _me,_ ” he answers. Then, more hesitantly, “Besides, have you _seen_ him?”

The smile on Phichit’s face takes on the forced quality which suggests that, on the inside, he’s screaming.

“Okay, I’m going to change the subject before _I’m_ the one who ends up crying, this time,” Phichit says chirpily, “It _literally_ hurts me when you do this. But my suffering aside, what are you going to say? You’re going to meet him, right?” He gestures at Yuuri’s phone.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know, I’ve got an afternoon class tomorrow, and I really should start working on my digital media production project—” Yuuri begins, but the reality is that he’s a little anxious about the whole situation, and he feels like if he makes one wrong move, it’s all going to come crashing down around him.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Phichit says in what sounds like his best imitation of his mother, and it’s admonishment enough. He’s right, though. Yuuri really, really needs to stop letting his life pass him by just because he’s afraid of taking risks.

“Alright, I’ll tell him I’m free,” he says softly, and Phichit sighs in apparent relief.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and switches to his laptop to type more easily, and Phichit goes on through to the kitchen, which had probably been his original destination before Yuuri had distracted him.

‘ _Hi Viktor,_ ’ he types, ‘ _Tomorrow evening is fine for me. My last class ends at 6:30, though. Is that alright?’_

He’s not brave enough to copy the ‘ _Love,_ ’ sign-off, and goes with a more reserved, ‘ _Thank you._ ’ A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Phichit’s _boos_ him for it.

He’s about to hit send, but impulsively he adds, _‘P.s. I never gave you my number, did I?’_ Then he types it in, and before he can overthink it he clicks the button, and the message is out of his hands.

Not even five minutes pass before Yuuri’s phone lights up with a new message, and his heart jumps into his throat as he goes to read it.

It’s a text this time, and he doesn’t even have to look at the name on the screen to know who it’s from.

‘ _6:30 is perfect. I’ll pick you up at the conservatory?’_

Yuuri’s hands shake as he replies, _‘You don’t have to go out of your way to pick me up.’_

A few seconds later a new message pops up on his screen, reading, ‘ _It’s really no trouble.’_

This whole experience is surreal, like Yuuri’s just the observer and some entity is moving his hands for him. This kind of thing doesn’t happen. Not to him. Like, sure, whatever Phichit says, _he_ knows this is just business… but still, he’s having a celebrity, a professional, world record holding, and _very_ attractive athlete _text_ him. It’s… overwhelming, to say the least.

‘ _Okay, if you’re sure you don’t mind,’_ Yuuri replies, though he feels a thousand miles away.

This reply comes quickly, too. _‘Not at all. <3 See you tomorrow. Good night, Yuuri.’_

Yuuri tries not to focus on the little ‘heart’ emoji. It means nothing, of course. Just a typing quirk of Viktor’s—after all, they’re essentially complete strangers. There’s no way it means anything. Half of his friends’ texts to him have ‘<3’ in them anyway; there’s no reason why this should be any different.

Of course, none of his friends ever _looked_ at him the way Viktor did...Yuuri shakes his head to clear the thought. This _isn’t_ a real crush, he tells himself, he’s just starstruck, and he needs to keep it in check or it’ll just make working with Viktor difficult. Besides, he really does want this gig, for the sake of his musical career if for no other reason.

‘ _Good night,’_ he finally texts back. Viktor doesn’t reply again before Yuuri falls asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning—fairly late, as his first class isn’t until almost noon and he can get away with putting off assignments this early in the semester—there’s one waiting for him.

‘ _Good morning, Yuuri. I’m looking forward to seeing you this evening,’_ And yeah, Yuuri’s _really_ not sure his heart will be able to take this.

‘ _Me too,_ ’ is the only thing he can bring himself to say in reply. As much as he’d love to stay in bed for a while and wallow in… whatever this is, he’s really got to get up and get dressed. As it is, he’s cutting it close if he’s going to make it to the school on time to go through the music for Guang-Hong’s upcoming cello audition with him like he’d promised.

Nevertheless, he hesitates in front of his closet for a while, deciding what to wear. This _isn’t_ a date, but...if he, plain-looking Katsuki Yuuri, wears something frumpy to a meeting with could-easily-have-been-a-career-model Viktor Nikiforov, he’ll look even worse with the juxtaposition. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he takes his best shirt off the hanger. It’s simple, plain white, but the cut and material are much nicer than what he can usually afford to buy—he’d splurged on this a few years ago, on the basis of needing _something_ nice to wear to recitals, concerts, etc.

That’s what he _keeps_ telling himself as he takes the time to comb his hair, brushes his coat, and finds a scarf that isn’t as warm as some of his others, but looks much nicer.

He takes one last look in the mirror and thinks, well, he looks about as good as he ever does, and heads out to catch the bus to the conservatory.

His day goes by in a blur, as he tries to pay attention to his classes, and not let his friends and professors see how easily distracted he is. Renata, a fellow composition grad student who Yuuri had met during his first semester, but doesn’t really consider a close friend, raised her eyebrow at his appearance and asked if he had a hot date. He’s sure he’d turned bright red as he insisted that it was nothing like that, but she didn’t seem convinced.

On top of his nerves, he’d had to sit through a _two hour_ presentation by a guest lecturer on the use of polyphony in Baroque period… Actually, now that he tries to remember exactly what the lecture had involved, he has a hard time recalling. He hopes that doesn’t come back to bite him.

Then it had been onto his evening class, which he remembers only _slightly_ more clearly than the guest seminar.

Finally, _finally,_ Yuuri’s last lecture ends, but now that he’s facing the eminent reality of going to meet with Viktor, he wishes it had dragged on a little longer.

Still, his heart pounding in his chest, mouth dry and breath coming quickly, shallowly, Yuuri makes it down the stairs and to the front steps of the building. There, parked right at the curb, is a taxi, and leaning gracefully against that, is Viktor Nikiforov.

Of all people, Renata is the one to happen by and see Viktor smile widely and call Yuuri’s name, and the look she gives him is somewhere between amused and impressed. He feels his face heat up—again—he feels like this is going to be a common thing when Viktor’s around. Either way, he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge her as he waves shyly back and descends the steps to the curb.

Yuuri’s really glad he’d decided to wear something decent, because Viktor is _stunning_ in a deep red shirt and grey tie under a long military-style coat. His shoes even look freshly polished.

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri tries to smile pleasantly, though he’s afraid it comes out as a grimace.

“I’m really glad you could meet with me tonight; it’s great to see you again,” Viktor says, opening the car door for Yuuri. He’s about to try to come up some up with _some_ reply that doesn’t make him sound like an idiot, but he’s saved the trouble when a large dog barrels out through the door. It makes a direct line for Yuuri and gleefully jumps up on him, paws nearly on his shoulders. He doesn’t fall, but he is knocked back a step.

“Makkachin!” Viktor scolds, “Bad girl! That is _rude;_ you know better than that.” The dog looks over her shoulder, entirely unrepentant, tail still going fast enough to blur, but she does jump down.

“I’m so sorry about her; she _never_ does this,” Viktor begins, but this is _exactly_ what Yuuri needed to take the edge off his anxiety. Completely ignoring the fact that he’s wearing some of his best pants, he goes down on one knee, extending his hands to the dog. She shoves her head into them, and he can’t help but laugh as she begins eagerly licking his face, tail wagging ferociously.

“Hello,” he manages to greet the dog, laughter warming his voice, in between her assaults on his face.

“Makkachin,” Viktor calls again, a little more sharply this time, and Yuuri swears he can see a ‘ _can you believe this guy_ ’ in the doleful look she gives him before returning to her owner’s side.

“Again, I am so sorry,” Viktor says, extending a black-gloved hand to help Yuuri up. He’s still smiling from the sheer joy of getting to meet a dog, though, and his hand doesn’t even shake as he lets Viktor help him up.

“It’s alright,” Yuuri says, brushing himself off and removing his glasses so he can clean the dog slobber off of them, “I _love_ dogs. Her name’s Makkachin?”

Makkachin, hearing her name, perks up and wags her tail. Viktor scowls at her. “It is, and she’s usually much better behaved than this.”

Yuuri laughs softly. “It’s really okay.” He looks up from his task, still unable to wipe the smile off his face, and damn, he _really_ can’t see anything without his glasses, because if he didn’t know better he’d say that Viktor _blushes_ when Yuuri looks at him.

“Let’s, um, let’s get going then,” Viktor says, as Yuuri slips his glasses back on and nods, climbing into the cab.

Viktor goes around to the other side, Makkachin jumping up before him to settle into the middle seat. She’s such a big dog that even when she curls up, pointedly setting her head in _Yuuri’s_ lap, she takes up all the space between them.

Privately, Yuuri is a little glad for the buffer, and for the excuse to not have to look at Viktor.

“Where are we going?” He asks after a moment, still focusing on Makkachin, his fingers buried in her fur.

“Yeah, where _are_ we going?” The cab driver asks from the front seat, the English words barely intelligible through his accent.

“Oh!” Viktor exclaims, and says something in Russian to the driver, speaking too quickly for Yuuri to parse it out, and a moment later the cab pulls away from the curb.

“I got us a table at Black Rabbit,” he says, switching back to English, “Have you been there before?”

“Ah, no,” Yuuri admits, though he’s pretty sure he’s heard about it.

“Me neither,” Viktor admits with a grin, “I actually don’t know if it’s any good, but I _do_ know they have a heated patio, and I felt bad about leaving Makkachin by herself all day.”

“What do you do when you’re away at competitions?” Yuuri asks, once again glad to have the safe topic of Viktor’s dog to talk about. He scratches her ears in private gratitude and she closes her eyes, looking deeply content.

“I usually have to board her at her vet’s office,” Viktor says, his tone regretful, and Makkachin’s head pops up at the word ‘vet,’ her face tightening in anxiety. Viktor chuckles at this, gently saying to her, “Don’t worry, that’s not where we’re going.”

He looks up at Yuuri, who gets caught by the full force of Viktor’s fond smile as he says, “Clearly she doesn’t like that much, but I can’t leave her alone for that long.”

“No one can watch her for you?” Yuuri asks, just as Makkachin sighs and lays her head back on his leg.

Viktor's smile goes soft at this, and he says, “You won’t be inclined to believe me after how she reacted to _you,_ but Makkachin can actually be a little shy around people she doesn’t know.”

‘ _Please let me watch her for you; I already love her,’_ is on the tip of Yuuri’s tongue, but that’s _entirely_ too presumptuous for a business meeting—which is what this is!—let alone with someone he’s just met, and he bites the words back.

Luckily, the restaurant isn’t far, and the cab driver drops them off right at the door. Yuuri gets out, and Makkachin follows, standing beside him and leaning heavily against his leg while Viktor pays the fare.

Yuuri feels kind of bad, like he should offer to split the cost, but he certainly didn’t go into music for the money, and honestly, he doesn’t have much to spare, especially if he’s paying for dinner at what appears to be a fairly nice restaurant tonight. He’s well aware that, in a normal business meeting-type situation, the person doing the ‘hiring’ would pay, but he’s too keyed up about the whole thing to assume that anything about this is normal.

An employee in a sleek black uniform greets Viktor, speaking Russian, and Yuuri is able to understand most of the conversation, though he’s sure the subtleties are lost on him.

“Reservation under ‘Nikiforov,’ I assume?” She says, smiling at Viktor in obvious recognition, even though he hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet. He nods and returns the smile graciously, but there’s little warmth in the expression.

“Right this way,” the woman says, and leads the three of them to a covered patio dotted with space heaters taller than Yuuri. It actually keeps the chill out remarkably well. A few other dogs perk up at the sight of Makkachin, but she pays no mind to them, sticking close to Viktor’s side.

As she gestures at a small table, she says, “I’m looking forward to the European Championships next week. I’m sure you’ll take gold, like always.”

The smile on Viktor’s face doesn’t waver at that, but Yuuri can’t help but notice that it’s all shimmer and no substance, and it’s _nothing_ like the ones Viktor's been giving him—again, not that this means anything.

“Thank you for your support,” he says politely, and she places menus on the table and goes back toward the main entrance.

“Sorry about that,” Viktor says when she’s out of earshot, switching to English. He takes his coat off and hangs it on the back of his chair. Yuuri tries not to stare—his shirt has a _very_ flattering cut and fits… perfectly—and does the same. Makkachin, for her part, curls up under the table, her body across Viktor’s feet.

“Well, you _are_ famous,” Yuuri says unthinkingly, then grimaces, but Viktor just chuckles and looks down at the menu.

Yuuri glances at his own, says a silent prayer of thanks that there are English descriptions of the items—he can read Cyrillic, a little bit, but he’s not great at it—and then winces when he sees the prices. They’re not outrageous, but he _shouldn’t_ be spending this kind of money when he’s got bills to pay—and if Viktor insists on paying, he’s equally uncomfortable with having that much money spent _on him._

Nevertheless, when the waiter comes by a few minutes later, he goes ahead and places his order for the _second_ cheapest thing on the menu, just to avoid ordering the absolute least expensive.

“So,” Yuuri says hesitantly when the waiter has taken their menus and left, and Viktor looks up, “Did you want to talk about the upcoming season?”

“Oh, yes, that is why we’re here, isn’t it?” Viktor replies, sounding for all the world like he’d actually forgotten the reason for this meeting.

“Would you...like to hear any more of my work before you decide for sure?” Yuuri asks, looking down. “I can show you my portfolio, or...” he trails off.

“That’s not necessary,” he replies, “I’m certain I want you.”

The easy confidence with which he says it, combined with the intent look, is enough to make Yuuri blush and he tries to hide it by taking a sip of his water.

“Um,” Yuuri says, losing what little momentum he had. This is the first time he’s ever had anyone want to commission him. He isn’t sure how the process works, or what questions he should ask, or...anything, really. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

Viktor laughs softly, and says, “Not really, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, dismayed.

“I’m usually a little more prepared when I commission my program music, but I might have jumped the gun a little when I heard what you wrote.”

His tone is apologetic, and he goes on, “I mean, the pieces will have to be the regulation lengths for the different programs, and I do need them by about April, but other than that, I’m pretty sure I’ll be happy with _anything,_ if you’re writing it.”

Yuuri needs to take a moment to restart his heart after hearing those words, but finally he’s able to say, “Do you...do you have a theme in mind, or anything? I really don’t want to write something and have you hate it.”

His smile brightens, and he leans forward, cradling his face in one hand. “I don’t think that’s possible. A theme, though.” Viktor pauses, looks away thoughtfully, then focuses right back in on Yuuri, and he can’t look away. “That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, lately. I think, for my last season, I want the theme to be ‘ _life and love._ ’”

“Oh,” Yuuri says again, but this time it’s because it’s the only thing he can manage to say, all other words besides _life_ and _love_ fleeing his mind.

Viktor grimaces at his unenthused response and asks, “That’s no good?”

Yuuri moves his hands in the universal gesture of, _‘that’s not what I meant,_ ’ and says, “No, no, I think it’s a great theme. I’d, um, I’d really like to compose something...something like that.”

Viktor smiles then, but it’s not one of his big, bright, showy ones. There’s something brittle in this one, something incredibly vulnerable. “I’m glad,” he says, “I really don’t think I could have anyone else, not after I heard your work.”

Yuuri’s heart is pounding hard enough that he hears his pulse rushing in his ears. Between that look and those words, any hope he’d had of keeping this purely professional are pretty much null and void. Granted, Viktor can’t possibly mean it in relation to anything other than Yuuri’s work but, well, that alone is enough to overwhelm him.

He’s searching desperately for a reply, for something worthy of what he’s been given, but the moment passes when the waiter returns with a basket of bread. Viktor thanks him in Russian, and when Yuuri catches the look on his face, it’s still pleasant, still a smile, but the tender fragility is gone.

It doesn’t come back for the rest of the evening, either. Viktor coaxes Yuuri into talking about school, and the food arrives after another short wait, and they both dig in. It is really very good, and Makkachin, smelling it, sits up and looks expectantly at Viktor, who gives her a firm ‘no.’ However, a few minutes later Yuuri catches him slipping a bite of chicken under the table to her.

Viktor tells him a little about the other skaters he trains with in St. Petersburg, and about their coach. In all this, Yuuri manages to find out only a few things about Viktor himself, though. One: he’s lived in this city for almost two decades, now. Two: that his birthday is on Christmas day. Three: he has a cat allergy, but it doesn’t matter much since he’s a dog person anyway.

“So, the guy who uploaded the video, who I talked to on Twitter,” Viktor says, apropos of nothing.

Yuuri tilts his head to the side, and asks, “Phichit?”

“Yes, that’s the name,” Viktor confirms with a nod. “He’s your…boyfriend?”

“ _Roommate_ ,” Yuuri corrects with an uncomfortable laugh, feeling himself blushing again. It’s not the first time someone has thought that about Phichit and him, but he doesn’t know where Viktor is going with this.

“Oh,” Viktor says. If Yuuri didn’t know better, he’d swear that Viktor sounds relieved to hear that. “You seem close, is all.”

“We are,” Yuuri says, “We’re _friends_. It’s just...never been like that between us.” He’s a little puzzled as to where Viktor is going with this, why it would matter to him, but the waiter comes by with the bill and Viktor doesn’t mention it again—maybe he had simply been curious.

Yuuri tries to take out his wallet, but Viktor simply says, “Absolutely not,” and places his own card on the table.

“You don’t have to—I can pay for mine,” Yuuri tries to insist, but it’s a weak effort.

“Consider it an advance on your commission, if you must,” Viktor says with a grin, and Yuuri gives in.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, looking down at his empty plate.

“It’s no trouble,” Viktor says politely, just as the waiter comes back to run his card. In another few minutes, they’re ready to go, and Viktor is calling another cab, asking Yuuri for the address to his apartment.

He gives it but says, “Really, though, I can walk. It’s not far.” He doesn’t relish the idea, though. It’s not a _short_ walk, and it’s freezing now that the sun has gone down, the clouds blanketing the city threatening more snow. Still, he’d rather deal with that than impose on Viktor’s hospitality.

He’s almost relieved when Viktor just gives him a look that says he won’t hear of it, and in another few minutes, all three of them are bundled into the back of the cab.

The driver goes by Yuuri’s first, and as he sees his building approach, he asks, “Should I—should I send you any sort of progress updates on the program music, as I work on it?”

Viktor shakes his head like he’s about to say no, but then pauses, and says, “Actually, that would be nice.”

Yuuri takes this to mean that Viktor _doesn’t_ have as much faith in his work as he previously expressed—which, _of course_ he doesn’t; Yuuri knows that his work isn’t good enough to merit the high praise he’s been getting, though it has been nice to hear—and he grimaces, focusing his eyes at some distant point through the window. “Of course,” he agrees, and then the cab pulls to a stop in front of his building.

He gives Makkachin a last pat on her head, and opens the door to get out.

“Yuuri?” Viktor says, and he stops, one foot out of the car and on the sidewalk. Yuuri looks back at the sound of Viktor’s voice, and the pause stretches on just a little too long to be comfortable.

“Thanks again,” Viktor says, finally.

“No, thank you. For dinner, and the ride, and...everything,” Yuuri replies softly, still unable to meet his eyes.

“It was my pleasure. Good night.”

“Good night,” he says, barely more than a whisper, and gets out of the car, shutting the door behind him.

 

-

 

_**Mid January 2016** _

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Viktor asks Makkachin as he closes the door to his apartment behind him. She tilts her head to the side and, predictably, doesn’t answer.

He sighs and goes to the kitchen to give her her dinner, trying to figure out what had happened. He’d thought their date had gone well—well, it hadn’t _really_ been a date, but he can’t help but think about it in those terms. He’s not so sure about Yuuri, though. He’d been so shy and reticent all through dinner, and then had seemed so...subdued, there at the end.

Makkachin is happily crunching away on her kibble now, and Viktor hefts himself up onto the counter nearby, watching her as he tries to figure out what might have been going through Yuuri’s head.

This isn’t easy for him—Viktor’s never been particularly sensitive to people’s feelings, and he knows that he’s prone to saying things which seem innocuous to him, but end up hurting others. He searches his memory now. Had it been the bill? Pressuring him to take the cab? His answer to Yuuri’s question right before he left?

He’d really only had good intentions—Viktor may not have gone to college, but he knows it’s not cheap, and it’s far too cold to have made him walk home. As for the thing about status updates, well, he’d been about to decline because he was certain he’d love anything Yuuri came up with, but had changed his mind midway through because more updates meant more excuses to talk to him.

Truth be told, he still isn’t sure, but he’s more certain than ever that he _needs_ to get this right. When Yuuri had showed up outside the school, looking so nicely put together, Viktor had just about forgotten how to breathe—and that was _before_ he’d realized that Yuuri had been wearing the same shirt as he had that night in New York.

That had to have been intentional—right? But he’d never mentioned their earlier meeting, nor made any sign of recognition when Viktor had hinted at it. Viktor doesn’t have a clue what to make of that.

And then Makkachin... he looks down at his dog, who is licking up the last few bits of food in her bowl, tail wagging sporadically. She’s always been a good judge of character—better than Viktor, most of the time. When she doesn’t like someone, she’s not shy about letting them know, barking or just staying as far away as possible. Generally she’s very polite to strangers, but not overly friendly.

He’s never seen her take so instantly to someone the way she did to Yuuri. He’d been horrified, of course, at her lapse in manners. But watching them interact, Yuuri going down on one knee to properly introduce himself to her, and Makkachin covering every inch of his face in enthusiastic kisses, he’d had that thought again—Yuuri is absolutely someone he could fall in love with

He thinks again about the melancholy, disheartened look Yuuri had given him right before he left, again, and his heart clenches in his chest. Viktor thinks, maybe, that he’s already halfway there.

He can’t let this slip away. Thinking hard, he begins to formulate a plan.

He’ll have to put in extra time at the rink to make this work, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t hate the sound of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! I really appreciate the feedback I've gotten on this so far; y'all are the best.
> 
> Sorry this one's a little shorter; seemed like the best place to end it, though.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me so far! Here's chapter 4.

_**End of January 2016** _

 

Yuuri doesn’t talk much to Viktor over the next two weeks or so. There are a few texts, but all in all, his life starts to settle back into its routine. He goes to his classes, he works on his assignments and his portfolio pieces, he practices his instruments, and starts learning a new one—harp, this time. And during the evenings and weekends, he brainstorms ideas for Viktor’s upcoming program music.

That’s where he is now, on Sunday afternoon: still in bed, wearing his pajamas, with his laptop perched on his knees, the blank document staring judgmentally at him.

He hates to admit it, but he’s not making very good progress. Partially because, well, Viktor didn’t actually give him much to work with besides the theme. Should he write in an oboe line? What if Viktor hates the oboe? Put dissonant chords into his string parts to create tension? But what if Viktor just thinks it sounds clashy and bad?

There’s another part of him that’s deliberately self-sabotaging any composition attempts, though, and Yuuri sees it happening but he can’t stop himself from doing it. It’s avoidance, pure and simple. If he doesn’t write the piece, it can’t disappoint Viktor. This is completely illogical, of course. Viktor would be _much_ more disappointed if he doesn’t write _anything,_ but Yuuri’s anxiety issues have never made sense.

It doesn’t help that every time he opens up his notation software or his piano app to play around with melodies, he can’t block out the thoughts of _he’s going to hate this,_ or _his last season will be a disaster with your terrible music,_ or _nothing you can write is good enough for him._ Music is Yuuri’s escape. Usually, when he’s composing, his focus narrows so much that the world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t notice. But the stakes have never been so high.

He wonders if he should just back out—there’s still plenty of time for Viktor to find another, more competent composer. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s going to figure out that Yuuri’s no good eventually. If he gets out early, he can still cut his losses and move on…

It’s while he’s thinking this that his phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand beside him. Yuuri jumps, and reaches over to grab it.

It’s a message from Viktor, almost like he was summoned by Yuuri’s thoughts.

‘ _Have you been watching the European Championships?’_ It says.

Yuuri grimaces. _‘I was in class during your events so I missed the livestreams. I did watch them later, though_ ,’ he replies, feeling a little guilty, even though he knows he didn’t really do anything wrong. Maybe he should have sent a congratulatory text after Viktor had gotten gold? He just hadn’t wanted to seem invasive or overly personal, though...They’re not friends, after all. They’re just working together for a while.

Viktor’s reply comes only a moment later. ‘ _Oh that part’s not important. Will you be able to watch the exhibition today, though? I’d really like it if you could.’_

He glances at the time, then checks the website. It’ll start in about an hour, and Yuuri doesn’t really have any plans for the rest of the day. He can’t help but wonder what this is all about, though. After checking to make sure he can find a working stream, he replies, _‘Yes, I should be able to.’_

The reply comes swiftly again. _‘Great!’_ it reads, followed by a smiling emoji.

‘ _Mind if I ask why it’s so important?’_ Yuuri hesitantly types, deletes, and types again. He closes his eyes and hits send.

This time, the response takes a few minutes, and when Yuuri’s phone buzzes, he quickly snatches it up, hands shaking a little.

‘ _It’s a surprise,_ ’ is all the message says, followed by a winking emoji.

Yuuri doesn’t hate surprises. In fact, he rather enjoys them, for the most part. It’s just...the waiting. Anticipation feels a lot like dread, and he spends a good portion of the first skaters’ routines half-watching, a cold, creeping feeling in his chest, his heart feeling like it’s beating just a little too fast the whole time.

Finally, _finally,_ the announcer introduces Viktor—Yuuri can’t understand anything else he says since the livestream is in Spanish, which he doesn’t know a single word of—but then he hears _his own name_. Yuuri sucks in a breath, his eyes going wide and he feels very far away from himself, and yet more present than he’s ever been. _Can this…?_ Certainly not. Viktor takes the ice, little more than a shadow in the darkened rink. Then, a bright light falls on him, and Yuuri only barely has enough time to recognize the costume from the 2012 routine before the first notes begin.

_Yuuri’s_ first notes.

He’s skating to Yuuri’s music, and Yuuri finally releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding.

“Oh,” he says out loud, his voice nothing more than a whisper, as Viktor makes his first jump, lifting off the ice just as Yuuri’s string part opens up into a single suspended note. He’d never imagined that anything like this could ever happen when he’d begun writing this piece, but it is, and it’s real, and god, he’s so beautiful.

This performance is somehow _more_ than the one from worlds that had been the inspiration for the piece. That one had been technical perfection, perfect in the way that clockwork is perfect, intricate and elegant and mesmerizing. But this...he’s like water, flowing from position to position, and when he jumps it’s like the waves cresting and breaking against the shore. It’s...alive, alight with some energy that hadn’t been there before. And he’s breathtaking.

Then it ends, Viktor taking his final pose. The camera zooms in on him, and Yuuri can see the look on his face. He’s smiling, a little flushed, but the expression is so genuine, so joyful that Yuuri can feel tears come to his eyes, a lump forming in his throat.

The announcer begins speaking again, but Yuuri misses whatever happens next—he’s got his glasses pushed up onto his forehead and the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. His breaths are coming in gasps now, and his shoulders are shaking. Despite his hands covering his eyes, tears are starting to fall down his face, and his heart isn’t so much pounding as _hammering_ in his chest.

He’s overcome and undone—and so, so happy.

Any thoughts he’d had about backing out on Viktor have been forgotten now. Yuuri _needs_ this, needs to see Viktor alive with his music, to see him bring his music to life.

He’s mostly managed to calm down, though his breathing is still a little ragged, when his phone buzzes.

‘ _What did you think?’_ Viktor asks.

Yuuri still isn’t sure there are words for what he thinks. Still, he has to try. _‘I’m speechless,_ ’ he types, _‘You were beautiful.’_ He stares at that, blushes at what he’d been about to send, and replaces it with, ‘ _It was wonderful. I’m honored.’_

There’s no reply for a long while—long enough that Yuuri closes the livestream and brings his notation program back up. He’s just entered the first few notes of a new melody that’s popped into his head when his phone buzzes again.

‘ _Sorry, got pulled into an interview,’_ it says, and a second later, another message pops up. _‘I’m glad you liked it—it wanted to surprise you as much as your piece surprised me.’_

Yuuri can barely breathe as he responds with a simple, _‘Well, it worked._ ’

When Viktor texts back a single ‘heart’ emoji, Yuuri has to bury his face in his hands again—this time because he’s sure all the blood in his body has rushed to his face. He knows, he understands, this is just how Viktor is, that it means nothing, but Yuuri _never_ expected someone like him to so much as merit a _glance_ from someone like Viktor, let alone anything like this.

It’s the worst kind of stupid to fall for someone as unattainable as Viktor Nikiforov, let alone when he’s _working_ for the man, but Yuuri’s sure there’s no going back, now.

He’ll just have to keep his feelings close to his chest—he doesn’t want to ruin what they _do_ have.

With this resolve, Yuuri focuses back in on his music, notes appearing like they’re jumping directly from his mind to the screen, with hardly any and need for his fingers to enter them.

A few hours ago, he’d been ready to give up.

Now? He’s never been so inspired.

 

-

 

_**Mid February 2016** _

 

Viktor gets the message about an hour into his afternoon practice. He only notices his phone beeping because he’s off the ice along with Mila, stretching along the boards while Yakov has Yuri do a full run-through of his program. The three of them have all qualified for worlds next month, and it seems like Yakov is finding ways to push them harder every day.

He wants a break. _Needs_ a break. He’s already so burnt out on this program, on skating in general. He’s almost jealous of Georgi, who didn’t quite qualify for worlds, and only has practice with them three times a week, now.

When he sees who the text is from, however, his mood does a complete 180.

Something must show on his face, because Mila leans in to try to read over his shoulder. “That from your new musician boyfriend?” She asks, a thin veneer of innocence covering her guile.

Viktor hasn’t told any of his rink-mates that the composer he’s been working with is Drunk Party Boy—and he doesn’t plan to, at least not until _well_ after he’s retired and they don’t have the opportunity to rib him about it every day.

So Viktor loftily replies, “He’s not my boyfriend—well, not yet,” and angles the screen so she can’t see it. When she goes around to his other side to try again, he turns it back the other way.

‘ _Sorry to bother you,’_ the message reads, _‘But I finished the first draft of your music. I sent it to your email. Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to change.’_

Viktor just about leaps over to where Yuri left his things and absconds with his headphones.

“Hey!” He hears from the ice, “What are you doing?”

“Sorry! I need these,” Viktor calls back.

At the same time, Yakov yells, “Nothing should break your focus on the ice, Yura! Back to work!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mila giving him an amused look, but he doesn’t acknowledge her as he plugs the headphones into his phone and opens up his email. There, right at the top, is Yuuri’s email. He taps it open and skims the message—it says pretty much the same thing as the text did—and moves to the attachments.

There are four, two PDFs of what the preview shows to be musical notation, and two audio files. Viktor disregards the first two since he never learned to read music, and opens SP-v01.mp3. He waits a moment while the file loads—and when it does, the rest of the world falls away.

Compared to what Viktor has heard of Yuuri’s other work, it really is a rough draft, but it’s still wonderful. It’s just on piano, a melody and blocked out accompaniment, and it sounds like it might have been electronically generated rather than a recording of someone playing, but there’s still something in it that resonates with him.

As soon as that one ends, he opens up the other file, and wow, from the first notes of this one he can already tell he’s going to love it. It’s not even all the way over before he opens up a text to Yuuri.

‘ _It’s perfect,’_ He says, and hits send before he can add something stupid like ‘ _and so are you._ ’

Tragically, Viktor doesn’t get to hear the end of the piece, or wait for a response from Yuuri, because the _other_ Yuri—the small, angry, Russian one who isn’t happy about Viktor taking his things—has yanked them off his head.

“And _don’t_ touch my stuff again, Viktor,” he says, apparently the end of a longer tirade he hadn’t noticed.

“Wow, those cancel noise really well,” is all Viktor has to say in response, and the look Yuri gives him is somewhere between dumbfounded and deeply irritated.

“Viktor!” Yakov shouts, “What’s taking you so long?” And there’s something else he must not have heard. He’s got to get some of those headphones if they’re good enough to block out _Yakov’s_ yelling.

“Sorry, I was...preparing for next season,” he calls back, ignoring Mila’s snort of disbelief. Technically, it’s not entirely a lie.

“Well, you’re not done with _this_ season so get _off_ your ass and _on_ the ice,” Yakov replies, and Viktor rolls his eyes, slips the guards off his blades, and glides to the center of the rink to do his own run-through.

His heart isn’t in it, and while he nails all the technical aspects, Yakov warns him that he’ll lose presentation points for a performance like that.

Viktor can’t bring himself to care, and counts the seconds in his head until practice ends.

Finally, _finally,_ it does, and he picks up his phone. Unsurprisingly, there’s a message from Yuuri waiting for him.

‘ _Really? There’s nothing you want changed?’_ it says.

Viktor almost lies, says that he would like to make a few changes, and can they meet up to discuss it, but honestly, that’s a little too transparent, even for him. It would become obvious within about ten seconds that he has no idea what he’s talking about, and besides he doesn’t _actually_ want Yuuri to rewrite anything.

‘ _No,’_ he texts back, _‘It’s great.’_

He does wish he had some sort of excuse to see Yuuri again, though. It’s been a full _month_ since they met for dinner. Viktor isn’t a man who pines—except, it would seem, when Yuuri is involved. First the party and their dance, and the weeks he’d spent waiting for Yuuri to call. He’d only given up then because he hadn’t thought he would ever see him again.

Now, he’s in the same city. Minutes away. But he’s distant in a different way now, so quiet and nervous, even though Viktor thinks he’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t hold the night they’d met against him—if anything, it's the _opposite_. He’d changed his gala routine for Yuuri—some part of him thought that might be enough of a declaration to make him fall into Viktor’s arms, but no, even that hadn’t been enough to break him out of his shell.

Now he’s stumped. Yuuri had been pretty clear about wanting him—then he’d never called. Yuuri had written a song for him—then refused to admit there was _anything_ between them. He’d been obvious in his flirting, but Yuuri hadn’t even acknowledged it. The mixed signals are puzzling him. He’s not sure if he needs to back off or try harder, but he’s never been so certain that he wants to do this _right._

There’s another consideration, too. Something he hadn’t really considered before, but he’s become uncomfortably aware of. Technically, while Yuuri is working on his program, he’s Yuuri’s _employer._ The agreement has been all verbal; Viktor hadn’t made him sign a contract or anything, but still, he’s paying him to perform a task, and there’s a bit of an ethical problem there, too. At least while Yuuri’s making his music, he really _shouldn’t_ be pursuing him. But damn, he’s never been so _fascinated_ by another man like he is with this one.

“Hey, do you want some water?” Mila asks, startling Viktor, who hadn’t realized he’s been staring intently at his screen, which has gone dark, for at least a full minute.

“What? No, I’m fine,” Viktor says, pocketing his phone and making an effort to smile nonchalantly.

“You sure, because you seem a little _thirsty._ ”

Catching the implication, he sighs and rolls his eyes, but grins a moment later.

Mila smirks in turn, and says, “I haven’t seen you like this since you went to that party in New York.” Viktor forces a chuckle, and Mila goes on. “You know what would be wild? If Drunk Party Boy turned out to be your mystery musician crush.”

“That...sure would be wild,” Viktor agrees noncommittally, because, well, _she’s not wrong._ He doesn’t argue the ‘crush’ part, either, because again, she’s not wrong.

Mila just slaps him on the shoulder and says, “Anyway, see you Monday. Happy Valentine’s day,” before she walks toward the door.

Viktor blinks. Tomorrow _is_ Valentine’s day; he hadn’t realized. Again, his mind goes to Yuuri. As if summoned, there’s a beep from his pocket indicating a new message.

He pulls it out and reads it as he walks toward the rink’s outer door.

‘ _Okay! Great! I did want to talk to you about instrumentation if that’s alright? I have some ideas but I wanted to check with you first.’_

And Viktor punches the air in excitement—here’s his chance! To see him again, if nothing else. Once again he has to remind himself that _Yuuri_ is _working_ for him.

‘ _Sounds great. I’m free all day tomorrow, if you have time to meet up?’_ He sends.

He closes the door behind him and steps out onto the sidewalk to begin his walk home. When his phone beeps again, he’s so preoccupied with the text that he nearly walks into a pole. It says, _‘Oh... I don’t want to take up your time on Valentine’s day...shouldn’t you be spending tomorrow with someone special?’_

He resists the urge to send back, _‘I will,'_ and instead types, _‘There’s no one but Makkachin, and I’m sure she’d love to see you again.’_

Yuuri’s reply comes almost immediately. _‘Yes!!’_ it says.

He blinks, half-smiling a little perplexedly at his screen, and another message pops up. _‘Um, sorry,’_ it says, _‘I meant, I’d like to see her too. Did you want to meet anywhere in particular?’_

The half-smile becomes a genuine one. It’s so, so endearing that Yuuri likes Makkachin—arguably the most important person in his life. He thinks for a moment on where they could go. If he’s bringing his dog—which, given Yuuri’s reaction, is non-negotiable—he doesn’t have too many indoor options. But the weather is supposed to be unseasonably pleasant tomorrow, so maybe being outside won’t be too bad.

He remember that there’s a city park not too far from the apartment building where Yuuri lives—he hasn’t been there in years, but he thinks that it was a nice place.

‘ _How about here?’_ He types in the address of the park. _‘Maybe around 11?’_

He’s in sight of his apartment when his phone beeps again. _‘Okay, sounds good,’_ Yuuri’s text reads. Viktor can’t stop smiling all the way to the door.

When he opens his door, Makkachin runs to greet him, and he leans down to rub her head.

“I’ve got such a treat for you,” he says, then winces when all she hears is ‘treat’ and looks expectantly up at him.

“Maybe in a minute,” he promises, and takes her for a quick walk around the block.

Viktor manages to cook himself dinner, shower, and go to bed at a reasonable time, but his mind is on tomorrow the whole time. When he wakes up, he spends a long time carefully putting together an outfit that shows off his best features—without making it look like he’s trying too hard. A deep purple sweater, warm but clinging, and a pair of dark slim-fitting jeans that he knows, from several reliable sources (including his mirror), make his ass look amazing. Then he does his hair, dabs on cologne, puts his coat on, and calls a cab.

The driver lets him off by the gate, and when Makkachin sees where they are, she just about vibrates with excitement—she may not know _this_ park, but she knows a park when she sees one.

“Not just yet, _lapochka,_ ” he tells her, “We have to wait for Yuuri. Sit and stay.” She looks at him with a baleful expression, but obediently sits down on the sidewalk beside Viktor.

They don’t have to wait long—there’s a bus stop just up the street. It’s only a couple of minutes before a bus pulls up and parks. There’s only one person to get off, and the sight of him makes Makkachin march her front paws in place with excitement.

Yuuri spots them and gives a shy wave with his free hand—he’s got his other one wrapped around a packet or folder of some sort. Viktor waves back, and Makkachin whines—she’s been told to stay, and she does, but she’s clearly not happy about it.

Viktor relents with a sigh. “Alright, you can go see him.” Permission granted, she streaks toward Yuuri in a blur of brown fluff. He’s encouraging her bad manners, but he can’t feel too bad about it—at least _one_ of them gets to run into Yuuri’s open arms and shower him with kisses.

For now he’ll have to live vicariously through his dog, he thinks as he walks over to where they are. When he’s about a meter away, Yuuri stands up and wipes his face with the end of his scarf. Makkachin prances and cavorts in circles around him, and Viktor thinks he’s never seen anything as absolutely _endearing_ as the look of complete delight on Yuuri’s face.

“Hi,” Yuuri says, and his voice is shy but there’s a smile still lighting up his face.

“I think she likes you more than me,” Viktor replies by way of greeting, trying to cover up the way his heart stopped for a second just then, tilting his head to the side and grinning.

Yuuri blanches a little, the grin falling from his face, and he looks like he’s about to protest that, and Viktor can’t believe that he’s managed to say the wrong thing _already._

“Which is fine—I don’t blame her,” he adds quickly, trying to salve the conversation. Yuuri does smile again at that, but it’s a small, nervous kind of thing this time.

“She’s a really wonderful dog,” he says, “You obviously take good care of her.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that after she’s just about assaulted you both times you’ve met,” Viktor replies with false exasperation.

The smile on Yuuri’s face is more genuine, now. “No, she’s fine. I...the dog I had growing up...she reminds me of him.”

“Oh? Was he a poodle too?” Viktor asks, genuinely curious—he wants to know everything about Yuuri.

Yuuri shakes his head, “No, mixed breed...we got him from the shelter, so I’m not exactly sure. He was black and tan and curly, though.” He pauses, and adds softly, “He passed away a little over a year ago.”

“He sounds like he was a great dog,” Viktor comments, and Yuuri just nods, a little sadly. Viktor is amazed at how badly he’s doing today—he’s already managed to make Yuuri uncomfortable _and_ sad.

“Should we—” Viktor says quickly to change the subject, pointing at the gate to the park.

“Oh!” Yuuri exclaims, perking up a bit, “Yes, I did want to check with you about a few things for your program.”

The three of them walk—well, Viktor and Yuuri walk; Makkachin is still prancing with excitement at being outside and with her new favorite person—over to the entrance, and onto the broad, tree-lined path.

They exchange a few words while they walk—Yuuri’s classes and ongoing projects, Viktor’s practices and plans for worlds next month. They don’t talk about anything important, and Viktor is a little concerned. No mention of the gala exhibition, _still_ no mention of the party. For all Viktor knows, Yuuri has just decided that he’s not into him and is trying not to be rude about it—he hopes not, though. He tries not to take it personally, and focuses back in on the present.

The park isn’t crowded, but they do see a few other people walking or sitting on benches or at picnic tables—couples, mostly. It _is_ Valentine’s day. Viktor can’t help but wonder if the people who see them think they’re together, too. He can’t help but wonder what it would be like for that to be true.

“This is pretty close to your apartment,” Viktor comments with a gesture that encompasses their general surroundings, “Have you been here before?”

“Oh, um, yes, actually,” Yuuri replies, “I used to come here a lot to go running last year, before it got too cold.”

“It seems like a great place for that,” Viktor says blandly, but his mind immediately summons up an image of Yuuri in running shorts—he’s had those thighs under his hands before, only the fine fabric of dress pants between them, had his legs wrapped around them when they danced, so he _knows_ they’re fantastic. His throat goes dry, and he hears the echo of Mila’s voice in his head, saying, _‘You want some water? You seem a little thirsty.’_

He is, in fact. Very, _very_ thirsty.

Viktor’s so caught up in his thoughts that he misses the first half of what Yuuri says, but manages to figure it out from the way he’s pointing at an unoccupied bench near an empty fountain.

“—so I can show you the music?” Is all Viktor manages to catch of the question, but he nods, and follows Yuuri to the bench. Makkachin wanders a few meters away to find a likely looking stick, and brings it back to chew on—Viktor will have to be to keep one eye on her to make sure that she isn’t eating it.

Yuuri’s sat down at one end of the bench, so Viktor takes a seat in the middle, just far away enough that they’re not touching but close enough to look over Yuuri’s shoulder as he opens the folder he’s been carrying. Inside, there are several pages of musical notation—the program music, he assumes.

Yuuri pulls out the first few pages, and begins explaining that he’s thinking the beginning of the short program piece could start out with just violin and glockenspiel, then at this part—he points at what looks to be a completely arbitrary point on the page—he wants to add in a full string ensemble and piano to echo the glockenspiel an octave down. Oh, and here—gesturing at another seemingly random spot—he’d like to add a horn section in on the background.

Viktor understands most of these words individually, although Yuuri might be completely making up terms like ‘bassoon’ or ‘glockenspiel’ for all he knows. Together and in context, though, Yuuri could have been speaking Japanese to him for all the sense it makes. Still, he lets Yuuri talk, nodding at the appropriate times to show that he’s listening. This way, he has an excuse to lean in, their shoulders touching, while he pretends to examine the music. He can’t help but notice, when Yuuri’s not stumbling over his words with nerves, he has a really, really nice voice.

(He wonders if Yuuri sings. He’s a musician, right? So he probably does. Viktor would like to hear that.)

“So, um, is that okay or would you like to make any changes?”

Viktor smiles broadly and says, “Sounds perfect.”

“Are you sure—no changes?” Yuuri asks, blinking.

Viktor laughs a little, and admits with absolutely no shame, “I don’t actually know anything about music, so I didn’t understand most of what you said.”

“Why didn’t you stop me? I’m so sorry—I should have explained,” Yuuri exclaims, going bright red.

Viktor gives a little shrug. “I trust your judgment. You’re the expert here.”

“Yes, but it’s _your music,_ ” Yuuri mutters. Viktor just shrugs again, because everything he wants to say is _too much._

“Would...you like to go over the other piece?” He asks, hesitantly, after a moment. “I haven’t got quite as solid of a plan for that one, but I do have some thoughts...”

“I’d love to hear them,” Viktor says honestly, and Yuuri takes a deep, shaky breath before pulling out a few more sheets of music.

He does go through it, explaining in more detail this time—he’s thinking that this countermelody could be a cello and double bass duet—also, a double bass is like a big cello that’s pitched lower. Maybe a descant at this part? He can’t decide between flute or oboe, though. Oh, a descant means that there’s a second melody played at a higher pitch than the original melody and an oboe is a type of double-reed instrument that has a very clear voice compared to others in the family. Viktor doesn’t mention that ‘reed instrument’ doesn’t mean much to him, either, and Yuuri moves on.

Regardless, when he’s done with the explanation, Viktor basically green-lights whatever he wants to do because, again, Yuri’s the expert.

Yuuri's blushing again, and says, “Okay. I—I think that’s all I needed to ask. Should—should I head home and let you get back to your day?” While he speaks, he packs the music back into its folder and tucks it between his hip and the bench’s armrest.

Viktor thinks quickly, coming up with an excuse for Yuuri to stay, and his eyes fall on Makkachin.

“If you want to,” he begins, “But I think Makkachin would be sad to see you leave so soon.” Viktor doesn’t say it, but he would be, too.

There’s a soft, fleeting smile that passes over Yuuri’s face, and he says, “Okay. Does she like to play fetch?”

Viktor laughs. “If you play fetch with her, she really _will_ love you more than me.”

Yuuri grins again, realizing this time that it’s a joke, and pats his lap to summon Makkachin. She’s been half-alert ever since she heard the word “fetch,” so she comes eagerly, bringing her chewed-up and slobber-covered stick with her.

“Makkachin, that one’s gross,” Viktor says, “Let’s go find you a new stick.”

He gets up, Yuuri following suit, and Makkachin obediently drops her current toy and leads them to a long stretch of brown winter grass under some massive evergreens, and she sniffs several fallen branches before picking one and bringing it to Viktor, dancing expectantly.

“Give it to Yuuri,” he commands, and she immediately complies.

Yuuri tosses the stick and Makkachin races after it, picking it up almost the second it hits the ground and skidding on the fallen needles in her haste to turn around and bring it back.

Yuuri’s got that bright look on his face again, and Viktor’s sure he’s never seen anyone so beautiful before.

The two of them take turns tossing the stick to Makkachin, who tirelessly retrieves it, wiggling with joy the whole time.

After about fifteen minutes of this, Viktor’s starting to get a little overheated in his coat—it really _is_ an unseasonably warm day for February, even here in the shade.

He glances over at Yuuri to see that the _opposite_ appears to be true. His nose is red with cold, and his whole body trembles a little as he shivers.

Immediately, Viktor takes off his coat and, without saying a word, puts it over Yuuri’s shoulders.

“You looked cold,” he says, when Yuuri starts and looks back at him, his whole face red, now.

“You don’t have to—it’s freezing out, you’ll...”

“I’m actually a little warm,” he says, and Yuuri stares at him in disbelief. “Russian, remember?” he adds. “Please—I can see you shivering.”

Almost inaudibly, Yuuri says, “Okay,” and puts his arms through the sleeves. The coat dwarfs him, even over his other jacket—he’s not much shorter than Viktor, but his frame is slight in comparison.

Viktor tries not to think of how Yuuri would look in his other clothes—shirts that would hang almost to his thighs, necklines gaping over his collarbones. He tries, and he fails.

Still, he pushes that thought to the back of his mind as Makkachin drops her stick at their feet and _woofs—_ it’s been too long since anyone threw it for her and she’s getting impatient.

Yuuri smiles and leans down to pick it up, tossing it overhand, and she takes off after it.

He’s not shivering anymore.

Eventually, Makkachin starts to show signs of fatigue, panting heavily and flopping down on the grass in front of Yuuri. Viktor didn’t think to bring any water for her, and as much as he’d like to stay with Yuuri longer, he’s a little concerned for his dog, and he figures he needs to take her home and get her something to drink.

Yuuri, completely understanding, agrees, and they make their way back toward the front of the park. This time, Makkachin walks sedately between them, too exhausted to do anything else.

Viktor takes out his phone and calls for a cab on the way back, and one must have been nearby, because it’s already parked and waiting by the gate when they get to the edge of the park.

“Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” Viktor says regretfully.

“It is...” Yuuri says, “Thank you for meeting up with me on your day off.”

Viktor smiles at that, and says, “Thank _you_ for writing the best music I’ve ever skated to.”

Yuuri goes red at that, and licks his lips. Viktor’s captivated by the small motion—he’s been enamored of the shape of Yuuri’s mouth since the moment he’d first saw him. For a moment, he forgets the commission, forgets the confusion, and can hardly think of anything other than leaning in to kiss him. But he reigns himself in—he’s impulsive, but not completely careless.

“I—” Yuuri says, and Viktor looks up, unable to stop himself from hoping that he’ll say something—about the party, the routine, _anything,_ but he just continues, “I hope Makkachin feels better after she gets some water.”

Viktor smiles again, swallowing disappointment. “I think she’ll be fine after a drink and a nap.” That does remind him, though, he needs to get her home and taken care of. Viktor turns and opens the door for her to hop into the backseat. He’s about to look back, say a final goodbye and get into the car himself, but Yuuri’s voice stops him before he can open his mouth to speak.

“Wait—” he says. “Your coat.”

Viktor smiles sheepishly. “Right, I forgot.”

Although, actually, he hadn’t. He’d been hoping _Yuuri_ would forget, so that he’d have an excuse to see him again, under the pretense of getting his coat back.

Still, he thanks Yuuri as he takes off the coat and hands it over, and watches for a moment as he half-jogs up the sidewalk to the bus stop.

When he slides into the car beside his dog, the driver looks back at Viktor with a grin.

“Have a good Valentine’s day date?” She asks.

Viktor smiles, and it’s only half-fake, bittersweet. “It was great,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends; thanks so much for all the kind responses you've left! Apologies for my lack of response; I'm having technical difficulties with my laptop which is making it. Um. Just about impossible to type normally. (To put it bluntly, the keyboard is fucked to shit and it's a huge pain to use the touchscreen to type.)   
> I've got a new one coming in this week and I'll do my best to get back to all of you over the next few days, but in the meantime, here's a blanket thanks! Reading your comments is always the best part of my day.


	5. Five

_**Early March 2016** _

 

Yuuri’s brow furrows as he plays through the phrase again. He needs to tweak this part—it doesn’t sound quite the way he imagined. There’s always a difference between arranging a piece digitally and hearing it played on real instruments. He lays the bassoon across his lap and picks up his pencil, making a few light notes on the score—maybe that will fix it.

He picks up the instrument and plays through the line with the edits, and, yes, that’s much better.

Yuuri works on Viktor’s music during every moment he has that’s not already devoted to class or schoolwork—and, sometimes, when he _should_ be focused on one of those. He’s been working on the instrumentation late into the night for the past two weeks, and just yesterday, he’d finished putting together a version that he thinks is pretty solid.

There’s still some of that fear there—fear that Viktor won’t like the finished version, fear that the thousands of people who will hear it at competitions might think it’s terrible, or not worthy of Viktor. In all honesty, Yuuri still isn’t sure he _can_ write something worthy of a five-time world champion and Olympic gold medalist. He’s just one of dozens of composition students at this conservatory alone—one of _thousands_ worldwide. Any of them might have gotten this commission, and probably pulled it off better than Yuuri. All he has going for him is that he’d been bored enough over winter break to make a piece set to one of Viktor’s routines.

Still, despite the anxiety that curls into a tight ball, sitting heavily and uneasily in the pit of his stomach, he’s not entirely displeased with how this is coming along.

Well, at least for the short program. There’s something off about the piece for the free skate, though...it’s _missing_ something, some crucial element that will tie all the parts and themes together. But he’s not sure what.

Yuuri sighs, and the knot of anxiety grows a little tighter. He only has a month to figure it out, to finish recording all the parts _and_ produce the final piece. It’s a tall order, even for someone who isn’t a graduate student who has a pretty tight schedule to begin with. He can see a lot of late nights, coffee, and Red Bull in his future.

He’s saved from the prospect of dwelling on this by a hand twisting the doorknob. A moment later it swings open and Phichit steps into the room.

“Hey, Yuuri,” he says brightly, “What did you need to ask me?”

“Phichit!” Yuuri replies with a smile, “Wow, you’re fast. I only texted you a few minutes ago.”

Phichit shrugs, and steps over to sit on the piano bench. “I was just getting out of class and I’m free until this evening. What’s up?”

Yuuri quickly rifles through the stack of papers on his stand and locates the parts he’s looking for. “I wanted to ask—and please don’t feel obligated—if you might consider helping me out with recording the piano part for this.”

“Viktor’s stuff?” Phichit asks as he reaches over to take the music. He looks over it, flipping through the pages a few times. “I can definitely do it, but—” He looks up, “Why me? You’re a perfectly good pianist yourself.”

Yuuri runs his hand through his hair, grimacing. “I can _play_ the piano alright—but I’m not really a pianist, not like you are. And the part’s a little complex for me. If you don’t have the time, or you’re not interested...I mean, you’ll definitely get a cut of the commission, but...”

Phichit cuts him off there, smiling and rolling his eyes. “No, I’m definitely down to help you out however I can. That should go without saying, Yuuri; we’re _friends._ And don’t even _think_ of trying to pay me. I was just curious, is all,” he says, and looks down to glance over the music again.

“Oh...well...thank you,” Yuuri replies, a little sheepishly.

“This actually looks pretty fun,” Phichit comments, still looking at the score in his hands. He looks up, after a moment, and says, “When did you want to start recording?”

“Um, probably sometime next week for the first piece, if that’s alright?” He asks, and when Phichit nods easily, he goes on, “I’m not really sure about the second. I think—I think _your_ part is pretty much the final version, but I still need to… add something to that piece, and I don’t want to record until I know for sure that I don’t need to make any changes.”

“Makes sense,” Phichit says agreeably, “What are you thinking of adding?”

Yuuri slumps in on himself and sighs. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for _days…_ It’s missing something but I can’t quite get it right.”

With no hesitation, Phichit replies, “You will, though. You’re a _great_ composer. I’ve heard enough of your pieces by now to know that much.”

Yuuri feels himself flush, a little self-conscious, and mutters a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Are you playing all the other parts yourself?” Phichit asks when Yuuri doesn’t say anything else.

“Mostly?” Yuuri answers, thankful for the subject change. “I still need to find a horn player—maybe Renata, you know, one of the other composition grad students?” Phichit looks blank. “Uh, short blonde hair, wears a lot of eyeliner?”

“Oh, her!” Phichit says, “I didn’t know she was a horn player.”

“Yeah, she mentioned it to me last semester in one of our graduate seminars,” Yuuri says. “So anyway, maybe her, and then Guang-Hong offered to play the violin and viola parts.”

“Offered?”

“He said it was only fair since I’ve been teaching him cello... I tried to pay him, too, but he refused.”

“Is it so shocking that your friends _want_ to help you?” Phichit asks, grinning, and Yuuri flushes again—it really _is._ And he’s grateful—Yuuri plays a little violin, but not well, and even less viola. He’s had multiple professors tell him it’s much harder to learn either of those when he already knows cello and double bass than it is to do it the other way around. Still, it rankles a little bit that he’s struggled with it so much when he usually picks up new instruments quickly.

“Anyway,” Yuuri mutters at length, “Besides those, I’m probably going to play all the rest.”

“Wow,” Phichit remarks, “That’s going to be a lot of work.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Are you sure I can’t do anything else to help?”

Yuuri fidgets with the keys on the bassoon, and answers, “You’re already doing me a huge favor by doing the piano parts—I can’t ask any more of you than that.”

“Um, you _can,_ and if you need it, you _should._ ” Phichit sounds fond, but also a little exasperated. “That’s the kind of thing friends _do_ —I mean, just last week you spent _three hours_ helping me go over stuff for my theory exam.”

“I—” Yuuri begins, about to protest, but he stops, sighs, and changes course. “You’re right. And chances are I _will_ need help to finish this by the end of the month.”

Phichit just smiles brightly and says, “Of course. Anything I can do,” and something relaxes a little in the knot of anxiety in Yuuri’s stomach. He’s always been so painfully shy that he’s never had a lot of friends. It’s kind of a new sensation, to have people that he can rely on, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that—but it’s nice.

“Do you mind if I give this a shot?” Phichit says a few moments later, and Yuuri looks up to find him examining the music again.

“Uh, sure, go for it,” Yuuri replies, scooting his chair back to give him more room. Phichit nods, puts the sheet music onto the ledge, and opens the piano’s cover to place his fingers on the keys.

Even plodding through a piece for the very first time, it’s apparent why Phichit is the performance major and Yuuri the composition student. He’s captivating when he plays, sitting so that the line of his back and shoulders are graceful and confident—not at all like the way Yuuri tends to hunch over the keys.

Phichit studies the piece, taking it slowly, pausing between phrases, but he’s still hardly fumbling the notes at all—and when he does, he laughs, backs up, and tries again.

Yuuri really doesn’t have any doubt that his friend is going to achieve his dream of becoming a world-famous pianist—one of the first from Thailand. When he plays, it’s impossible not to see how much he loves it, and how much he loves his instrument. On top of that, he’s _good._ Scary good, even taking into account the fact that he’s been taking lessons since he needed a booster seat to reach the keys.

“Wow,” Phichit says when he’s gotten about three quarters of the way down the page, “This is going to sound really nice when it’s done.”

“Because of my writing or your playing?” Yuuri teases.

“Well...both,” Phichit acknowledges. “And this is the first project we’ve ever worked on together, so that will make it even more impressive.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Yuuri remarks. Back in undergrad, he’d written a few piano pieces for his earlier composition classes, but once he’d gotten the basics down, he’d preferred to write for string ensemble or orchestra, so yeah, this _is_ the first thing of his Phichit has ever played.

“We should take a selfie to commemorate the occasion,” Phichit exclaims, already taking out his phone.

“You and your selfies,” Yuuri says, shaking his head, but he’s already moving his chair closer—it’s easier not to fight Phichit on this kind of thing, and he doesn’t really mind.

Phichit puts an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders to draw him into the frame, his other arm holding his phone out.

“Oh, put your bassoon up like you’re going to play—that will look good,” he commands, and Yuuri obeys—Phichit _is_ a master of the art of the selfie, so he probably knows what he’s talking about.

“Perfect!” He remarks, “Now smile!” Again, Yuuri complies, and the artificial _click_ of the shutter sounds a second later.

Phichit opens the photo, and tilts the phone to show Yuuri. Maybe his friend’s natural charisma is rubbing off on him, here, but he looks kind of alright—his smile almost always seems nervous and forced in photos, but here it looks pretty natural. Phichit, as always, looks amazing.

“Okay for Insta?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri nods.

He moves his chair back to where his own music is, and plays through a few more phrases while Phichit taps away at his phone screen.

He’s not sure how much later, but it’s definitely not more than a minute or two, when he’s startled by the sound of Phichit’s voice exclaiming, “Oh my god!” Yuuri jerks the reed away from his mouth just in time to have a phone shoved into his face.

[Image: Instagram post by phichit-chu. Description reads “Working on Yuuri’s first commission!! #bestfriend #spbconservatory #gonnabegreat.” Two users have ‘liked’ the picture, one of which is v-nikiforov.]

“Okay?” Yuuri asks, not understanding the significance.

“ _Viktor Nikiforov_ liked it—and not even a minute after I posted,” Phichit explains slowly.

“Well, yeah, you did basically say we were working on his project; he was probably happy to see that,” Yuuri replies logically, and both of them pretend like he isn’t blushing.

“You know he follows me—right? On Instagram?”

“Phichit, _lots_ of people follow you on Instagram.”

“That’s true. I’m gorgeous,” Phichit says, “But I digress. Yuuri, my friend, my sweet, technologically-illiterate prince, do you know what a ‘thirst follow’ is?”

“Is that when you... follow the account of your favorite brand of drink?” Yuuri guesses, unsure of where Phichit is going with this.

“Oh my god, I want to lock you away from the world and protect you; you’re so pure, Katsuki Yuuri,” Phichit replies with gravity.

“Okay, seriously, what does it mean?”

“It’s, uh, when you follow someone on social media because you’re...uh, physically attracted to them?”

“What does that have to do with thirst?” Yuuri asks.

“You’ve _been_ on the internet before, right?”

“Yes? You know I have.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Phichit comments guilelessly, “Anyway, your world-record holding skater thirst followed _me_. Because of _you._ ”

“You’re not serious,” Yuuri says, after a long, vaguely tense silence.

“As a heart attack,” Phichit confirms, looking down to furiously scroll through his phone. “He’s only ever liked pictures that have you in them.”

“That doesn’t mean any—” He’s cut off when the phone is shoved in his face again. He remembers this picture from about two weeks ago—Phichit’s face takes up half the image, and in the background is Yuuri, covered in about three blankets on the couch with just his head and hands poking out, his phone in front of his face.

Phichit scrolls down a little way, and shows him the comments section.

‘ **v-nikiforov:** haha Yuuri looks so cozy here <3’

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Yuuri insists again, and again, Phichit’s smile takes on that quality that suggests that he wants to cry, the corners of his mouth straining to hold the pleasant expression and his eyes screaming ‘ _why are you like this?_ ’

“You’re going to be the death of me,” is all he says though, sighing deeply and putting his phone away.

Just then, there’s another hand on the doorknob, and a moment later, Leo and Guang-Hong step into the room.

“Hey, I say your post on Insta just now and thought we might find you in here,” Leo says, waving brightly.

Yuuri waves back, and so does Phichit.

“What were you talking about?” Guang Hong asks, taking one of the empty chairs.

“Oh, just how Viktor is following me on Instagram because he wants Yuuri’s dick.”

“Oh, yeah,” Leo agrees, his voice serious, “He does. He _definitely_ does.”

“Not you _too,_ ” Yuuri exclaims, throwing up his hands in despair. Only Phichit’s quick reflexes stop the bassoon in his lap from toppling over onto the floor when he does—and he can’t express how grateful he is for that; it’s a rental.

Phichit gives him a bemused look, and Yuuri smiles back in thanks, a little abashed.

“Okay, I have to say this, and then we can drop the subject,” Leo says, taking the last remaining chair, “I just don’t see why it’s so unfathomable to you that someone might be interested in you. Like, _four times_ in the past year or so, I’ve had people asking me if you’re single or if I can give them your number or something.”

“Five times for me,” Phichit adds, “Not counting anyone in New York.”

“Twice, here...” Guang-Hong chimes in with a nod.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri mutters, dropping his head and pushing his glasses up onto his forehead to rub at the bridge of his nose. “First of all, I really think you’re misinterpreting those,” he says, and goes on before anyone is able to protest, “And this…This isn’t just _anyone,_ ” he says without looking up. “Viktor is a world-record holding skater and an international icon. I’m just...I’m just some composer who _happened_ to write a song he liked. We’re working together. It’s professional. He’s only interested in me insofar as I’m _working for him._ That’s all.”

His words are firm, but there’s a shred of doubt in his own mind—one he’s careful not to nurture, but he can’t banish entirely. He thinks back to the last time they’d met up, that day in the park. How Viktor had sat so close to him, how he hadn’t seemed to want to leave, the way he’d _insisted_ that Yuuri take his coat. He’d nearly had a heart attack when _that_ had happened—even now, he can perfectly remember the way it had smelled, clean and warm, with a trace of cologne sticking to it, something spicy and woodsy.

But, no, all those things had simple explanations. Viktor had _had_ to sit close to see the music well. He’d been reluctant to leave because it was the first day in a long while nice enough to play with his dog outside—and he’d probably let Yuuri stay because he felt bad about hearing that Yuuri’s childhood dog had passed away. As for the coat—well, Yuuri _had_ been really cold, and based on the flush he remembered seeing in Viktor’s face, he _had_ been overheated.

He snaps back to reality and looks up just in time to see the other three exchanging skeptical glances, and adds, “So can we drop it? Please?”

“Alright,” Leo says, a touch of regret in his voice.

There’s a moment of silence, and Guang-Hong breaks it by asking, “Um, do you have those parts ready for me so I can start learning them?”

Finally back on comfortable ground, Yuuri brightens a little, and begins rummaging through his pile of parts—he’d brought those just in case he had a chance to talk to Guang-Hong today.

“I do, actually,” he says, pulling out the violin and viola parts and handing them over.

Guang-Hong flips through them, a smile spreading across his face.

“Wow!” He exclaims, “I kind of want to get started right away.”

Yuuri grins, but Leo frowns and says, “Wait, they _both_ get to work on your project? I want in, too!”

With a small laugh, Yuuri replies, “Sorry, Leo, but I don’t have a trombone or a euphonium part. You’d be my first choice if I did, though.”

Leo pouts a little, and asks, “No pipe organ either?”

“You play the pipe organ?” Phichit asks, sounding as confused and taken aback as all of them look.

“Um, yeah?” Leo says, “Did I never mention that?”

“You’ve _definitely_ never mentioned that,” Guang-Hong says, and Yuuri nods agreement.

“Since _when_ do you play the pipe organ?” Phichit continues.

“Since I was, like, nine? My uncle used to play it in the church I go to at home. He taught me, and then I took over when he moved away. Used to play three times every weekend _and_ on holy days of obligation.”

“Why are we just now hearing about this?” Phichit interjects again, “I’ve wanted to learn organ for _years._ Teach me?”

Leo laughs, and says, “I guess it just never came up—I haven’t really played since moving up here. And, okay, sure, but only if you give me some pointers on piano.”

“Deal,” Phichit agrees readily.

“Anyway, Yuuri, no pipe organ part either?”

“I’m afraid not,” Yuuri says apologetically, “But, again, if I did—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’d be your first choice, as if you even _know_ another organist,” Leo cuts him off with an eye roll, then smiles to indicate that he’s not really upset. “But really, if there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.”

Yuuri smiles too, still a little stunned by how great his friends are—when they’re not hounding him about his love life—and says, “Thank you. I will.”

 

-

 

_**Mid March 2016** _

 

After that one nice weekend in February, the weather had taken a turn for the cold and nasty. Only now, over a month later, has it finally started to warm back up again. Today, it’s cloudy, but there’s no rain in the forecast, and the temperature is actually relatively nice.

Which is great, because Viktor needs to get out. With worlds coming up in just a few weeks, he’s hardly been anywhere besides the rink and his apartment, and he and Makkachin are starting to go stir-crazy. It’s his day off—the last one he’ll get before flying out to Boston for competition—and he’s decided to rent a car and take his dog down to the beach.

It’s still far too cold to swim, but the combination of that and the dreary weather means that they pretty much have the beach to themselves, and Makkachin is loving it. She’s running between washed-up pieces of driftwood, crab holes, and piles of seaweed, eagerly sniffing each. Her meandering makes it easy for Viktor to keep pace with her, and she keeps circling back to him, nudging at his hands and legs to make sure he’s having as much fun as she is.

He’s not—not really. Maybe it’s the impending competition, or the particularly intense practices Yakov’s subjecting him to, or just the lack of leisure time, but Viktor’s been feeling pretty drained, lately, both physically and emotionally. It’s hard to drum up the effort to put into his skating when he really just can’t bring himself to care. The only time he enjoys it at all is when he runs through his exhibition routine—but as Yakov keeps reminding him, there won’t _be_ an exhibition routine if he doesn’t make the podium in his event.

It doesn’t motivate him like it would have, once. He’s already won gold at worlds five times now, consecutively. He’s gotten silver and gold at the _Olympics_. There’s nothing to prove to himself, and nothing to prove to anyone else, either. It just feels like...more of the same, and the spark isn’t there anymore.

A bark snaps him out of his fog, and he looks up to see Makkachin darting at the retreating surf, snapping fiercely at it, but scrambling away when the waves roll back in. Viktor _does_ smile at the sight of that. He’s glad he brought her out here today—just seeing her zest for life makes him feel a little more vibrant himself.

Makkachin rounds a curve around a patch of wind-beaten trees, pausing to investigate a fallen log. Viktor follows her at an easy pace, ready to call her back if she gets too far away from him, but he’s not really too worried. Just when she’s lost interest in the log, Viktor sees Makkachin’s head jerk up, and she cocks it to one side as if she’s listening intently. He listens too—all he can hear is the wind streaming toward them, but he’s not a dog.

Without warning, Makkachin springs forward and begins racing away, a dark blur against the dingy brown sand.

“Makkachin, come back,” he calls after her, but she doesn’t listen. With the beginnings of panic, Viktor takes off after her, running as quickly as he can, but she’s faster than him.

He’s too focused on her to see what she’s running toward until she slows and stops, no longer running but leaping and prancing in circles around a human figure.

He’s about to call her back and give her the worst scolding of her life when a voice reaches him, distant, startled, and almost inaudible over the wind, but familiar.

“Makkachin?” the figure exclaims, and Viktor picks up his pace to catch up, putting together what must—impossibly—be happening.

“What are you doing here? Where’s—” he’s saying, and then he looks up to see Viktor approaching, out of breath, disheveled, and—he glances down at his pants— _covered_ in sand.

“What are the odds,” Viktor manages to say, mostly to himself, as he slows to a walk and tries to catch his breath.

“Viktor?” Yuuri says, looking startled. He’s bundled up against the cold and holding some sort of device in one hand.

“Hi,” he says in a huff, grinning despite himself. Viktor hasn’t spoken much to Yuuri over the past month—he simply hasn’t had the time, let alone the energy—but he’s never been far from his thoughts. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Um, yeah,” Yuuri says, still looking startled.

Viktor takes a moment to try to straighten out his wind-tousled hair and brush the worst of the sand from his pants. As he bends down, Makkachin trots over to him, her whole body shaking as she wags her tail, seeming very proud of herself. ‘ _Look who I found!’_ she says with her posture and lolling tongue.

“You are a very bad girl,” he says seriously, standing back up straight, “You can’t go running off like that, you scared me.”

Makkachin’s ears droop, her posture deflating a little, but she only looks chastened for a moment, too caught up in her excitement over finding Yuuri. She turns to run back to him, rubbing her body against his legs.

Viktor closes the remaining few meters between them so that he can speak normally, without being drowned out by the wind and waves. “Once again, I am _so_ sorry for my ill-mannered dog.”

“No, she’s fine, I was just—” Just then, Makkachin presses herself against the back of Yuuri’s legs with enough force to knock him off balance. He’s already top-heavy due to the thing he’s carrying, and it’s enough to make him tip forward.

Viktor instinctively steps in and catches him, putting an arm around his shoulders before he can go down completely.

“— _Startled,_ ” Yuuri finishes in a whisper, _very_ close now, his lips almost on Viktor’s ear. Quickly, he makes sure Yuuri is upright and steady again, and steps back.

“Makkachin, this is all very _101 Dalmatians,_ but that was _extremely_ rude of you,” he scolds in Russian, “I don’t want to make any worse of an impression than I already have.” This time she seems to comprehend his displeasure more clearly, her tail drooping as she turns doleful eyes on first Viktor, then Yuuri.

“Really, I am so sorry—” he explains, switching back to English, “I haven’t had much time to take her out lately, and she’s a little overexcited. Is your—thing okay?” He gestures at the device still held in Yuuri’s hand.

He gives is a quick glance, and says, “It’s fine; it didn’t get caught or anything.”

“Oh, good,” Viktor breathes a sigh of relief. He can’t help but to ask, though. “What is...what _are_ you doing all the way out here?”

“I was, um,” Yuuri begins, “Actually, I was working on your piece.” He ends with a half-hearted laugh, the tips of his ears going red.

Viktor tilts his head to the side. He’s no musician but he still doesn’t quite comprehend how this situation has anything to do with composition.

Yuuri quickly stammers out an explanation. “I wanted to record the birds and the waves, just, you know, ambient noise to play over the quiet parts, kind of set the mood?”

“Wow! So that’s a...” Viktor trails off, gesturing at the fuzzy grey thing he’s holding.

“Microphone, yes. I’m renting it from the school for the day,” Yuuri finishes, using his other hand to fish in his pocket, where the device, through what looks like a series of adapters, is plugged into Yuuri’s phone. “I’m not having a lot of luck, though,” he admits after a second.

“Why not?” Viktor asks.

“The wind is too strong; all I’m getting is interference,” Yuuri answers, a furrow forming in his brow as he looks at the microphone. “Unless...” He begins, but trails off, shaking his head.

“No, what is it?” Viktor presses, and Yuuri colors again.

“I don’t suppose...” His voice is small, and he’s looking anywhere but at Viktor, “You might be willing to block the wind for me, for just a few minutes?”

“Yuuri, if it will get you to forgive me for letting my dog assault you a _third_ time, I’ll do anything you ask.”

Yuuri goes an even brighter shade of red, burrowing into his scarf so that half his face is hidden. “It’s really alright; she’s very sweet. Also...Um...Just...so you know...” he pauses, but takes a deep breath and goes on a second later, “You haven’t ever made a bad impression.”

“What?” Viktor begins, but then recalls what he’d said to Makkachin, and can feel _himself_ blush. Somehow, he hadn’t considered that Yuuri would be able to understand Russian, even though he _knows_ he’s been living here for over a year—between them, they’d only ever spoken in English. “Oh, uh, I, well. I’m glad.”

He still can’t see Yuuri’s mouth behind his scarf, but the way his eyes go soft makes Viktor think he’s smiling.

Viktor grins in turn, and says, in his native language, “Also, how much Russian do you speak?”

Yuuri blanches a little, looks like he’s trying to disappear completely into his scarf now like a turtle retreating into its shell, but he replies, hesitantly, in the same language, “Um, enough to get by, most of the time. But I’m not fluent.”

Viktor can’t help but laugh in delight at this—honestly, he’d never have believed his own language could sound so _cute._

“Oh no,” Yuuri says, in English again, “ _Everyone_ laughs when I try to speak it—am I really that bad?”

Viktor, still smiling, quickly reassures him. “No, no, you were perfect. Your accent is just—” He pauses, reconsidering what he’d been about to say. ‘ _Adorable’_ is definitely in the realm of ‘coming on too strong,’ particularly from an _employer._ “—Utterly charming,” he says instead.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, barely audible over the wind, his cheeks looking bright enough to burst into flame. Viktor hasn’t ever met anyone who blushes quite as prettily as Yuuri does. Of course, Viktor hasn’t met anyone who does a _lot_ of things quite as prettily as Yuuri does.

“Um, where should I stand?” He asks after a long moment.

Seemingly relieved to be back on comfortable ground, Yuuri looks up and seems to consider for a moment. “Could you move a little to your left?” Viktor does, and Yuuri smiles and says, “Perfect. Now, stand with your back to the wind?” Again, Viktor complies, and Yuuri nods.

“Okay, just give me a second to get this all set up...” Yuuri says, and pulls his phone back out of his pocket, unlocking it one-handed and opening up an app. All Viktor can make out on the screen is a large red ‘record’ button, which gives him a good idea of its purpose. Yuuri steps in, standing close to him now so that, in the space between their bodies, there’s a pocket of still air, and spends a few more moments adjusting settings and positioning the microphone.

“Okay, I’m about to record. The microphone is really sensitive, so be as quiet as you can,” he requests gently, then looks up, and starts a little bit, going red. “I mean—please...if you don’t mind, that is.”

Viktor wants to laugh again _—_ Yuuri’s reserved politeness is so incredibly endearing, and he’s smiled more during this conversation than he has in the past week—but he holds it in, and mimes sealing his lips and locking them. Yuuri smiles at that, and turns to Makkachin, who is still sticking close, maybe still feeling chastened from Viktor’s earlier rebuke, but more likely just tired after sprinting down the beach.

“That goes for you as well, Makkachin. You can be quiet too, right?” He asks. Makkachin cocks her head to the side, and wags her tail in response to his gentle tone, but doesn’t make a sound otherwise. “That’s a good girl,” he says, smiling fondly. She wags her tail again, but still keeps quiet.

If Viktor hadn’t been smitten before, that alone would have done the trick, he thinks as his heart pounds in his chest—it’s so loud, he’s worried the microphone will be able to pick it up. Everything about this sensation, warm and tender like a freshly-sparked fire, is so new and fragile that he’s afraid to think too closely about it.

He’s learning a lot about himself, the more time he spends with Yuuri. Namely, that the way to his heart is—apparently—through his dog. Although writing music for him seems to help, too. As does drunkenly sweeping him off his feet—figuratively _and_ literally.

That is...Viktor’s come to realize, during his few encounters with Yuuri over the past couple of months, that his encounter with the man he’d met at that party, the one with the assertive and outgoing personality, had been unusual to say the least. An aberration. This Yuuri—the quiet, shy, easily flustered one—is the _modus operandi._ And he’s not disappointed, not really. A little confused, sure, but not disappointed. After all, he likes this Yuuri too, with his soft, hesitant smiles and his mind that writes the most startlingly beautiful music.

The man is a puzzle, a study in contrasts, and Viktor can’t help but be fascinated.

The moment Yuuri’s not under his employ anymore, he thinks, he’s going to say something. He _has_ to. The thought of him getting his music and the two of them parting ways forever is unbearable.

He hardly realizes how much time has passed while he’s been staring at Yuuri—who, luckily, hasn’t appeared to notice, all his focus on his recording, on the waves and birds crying overhead.

Finally, he sees Yuuri press his thumb over the button on the screen to stop the recording.

“Let me check the quality on this, but I think that should do it,” he says, moving the microphone to the crook of his elbow so he has a free hand. He fishes around in his coat pocket for a moment and pulls out a pair of earphones, the wires hopelessly tangled.

Viktor watches him fight with them for a few seconds, a fruitless struggle with only the use of one hand, and offers, “Here, let me get that.” He doesn’t give Yuuri time to protest, plucking them from his fingers almost the instant he’s finished speaking.

“Oh—uh, thank you,” Yuuri says, a little belatedly, as Viktor deftly untangles the wires.

“There you go,” he says, pulling the last knot free, and, with a playful grin, he places the buds directly into Yuuri’s ears. Yuuri starts at the contact, his head jerking up. It’s only then, with Viktor’s hands essentially on his face, that he seems to become aware how close they’ve been standing this whole time, and he goes bright red, taking a hasty step back. Trying not to be hurt by Yuuri’s hasty retreat, Viktor puts his hands back in his own pockets and flashes a sheepish grin.

“I...um...” Yuuri says into the silence that’s grown, “I just need to check this...” He fumbles for the end of the cord and plugs it into his phone before tapping a few times on the screen. Within a few seconds, his face starts to lose the embarrassed grimace it had been set in, going intent, then pleased.

Finally, Yuuri nods decisively, his mouth curving into a small grin. He puts his phone in his pocket and slips the earphones out.

“Did it work out?” Viktor asks.

“Still some static from the wind, but it’s little enough that I can edit it out,” he says. Then, losing a bit of the confidence he’d gained. “Um—thank you. I was starting to think I’d wasted my time coming out today, but this is exactly what I needed.”

“I still can’t believe I ran into you all the way out here, but I’m happy I could help,” Viktor says honestly.

Yuuri smiles again, then, a fleeting thing, but it lights up his face.

“I guess I should let you get back to your walk,” he says, “I, um, I’m kind of eager to get home and work on this.”

“I was actually about to head back, too,” Viktor lies, though with the way the wind has picked up and the waves are frothing when they break against the shore, he thinks it’s probably not a bad idea. There hadn’t been a storm in the forecast when he’d checked this morning, but the meteorologists have been wrong before. “Maybe we can walk back together? How did you get here?”

“Um, the bus,” Yuuri says, looking a little stunned, but he doesn’t say _no_.

“I can give you a ride home too, if that’s alright with you.”

“You don’t have to!” Yuuri protests immediately, “I mean, I’m fine; please don’t go out of your way for me.”

“I rented a car for the day, and your apartment is on my way back,” he says. It’s another lie, but a small one—it really is only a little bit out of his way, and it’s more than worth the minor inconvenience.

“I...” Yuuri says, but loses steam. He looks out over the water, and the dark clouds that are gathering, stark against the white-capped waves. He seems to think the same thing Viktor had, and says, “Well...I guess if you really don’t mind.”

“I really don’t,” Viktor assures him. “Now, I don’t like the looks of those clouds; should we start back?”

“Yeah...” Yuuri agrees absently, looking with some concern at the microphone. Viktor recalls him mentioning that it’s a rental, and he understands the concern.

By unspoken agreement, they both turn and begin the walk back up the beach. Makkachin eagerly joins, but, perhaps sensing the mood, she doesn’t frolic and meander, instead staying close between the two of them.

They don’t talk much on the way back, focused on covering as much ground at they can as the sky darkens overhead, clouds rolling in from over the Baltic Sea. The first raindrops begin to fall when they’re about halfway back to where Viktor parked his rental.

Immediately, he takes off his jacket—the red and white one that marks him as a member of the Russian national team—and holds it out to Yuuri, who looks at it in puzzlement.

“It’s waterproof,” he explains, and gestures at the microphone with it.

“Oh, I...wow, are you sure? Thank you,” Yuuri says, tentatively taking it, and wrapping it securely around his electronics. “The weather said it wasn’t supposed to rain, today...”

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” Viktor says with displeasure, crossing his hands over his chest and rubbing his arms—it’s _cold_ with the wind and the rain. He stops when he sees Yuuri looking at him with an expression of guilt and dismay, and makes himself smile in a way that he hopes is reassuring—he doesn’t mind being cold for Yuuri’s sake.

They walk a little faster, and the rain starts coming down harder and harder so that all three of them are soaked and miserable by the time they get to the car. Viktor winces as he opens the back seat for Makkachin—she’s covered in sand, and doesn’t smell great. He’s going to have to pay extra to have the car detailed when he returns it tomorrow morning.

Still, he sighs in relief as he gets into the driver’s seat, the leather upholstery squelching unpleasantly against his sodden clothing.

Honestly, the only upside to this situation is that Yuuri is with him, and even that’s a glass only half-full, as that means he also has to be cold and uncomfortable, _and_ see Viktor at his least put-together.

Glumly, Viktor starts the car and turns the heater on full blast.

“No rain in the forecast, my ass,” he mutters, putting the car into reverse.

“I bet the meteorologist will be getting a lot of nasty letters,” Yuuri replies, sounding more tired than anything else.

“Well-deserved ones,” Viktor says. He’d be tempted to send one himself, but Yakov has put him through too much mandatory PR training to do something like that. “Anyway, did your equipment make it?” He asks as he backs out of the spot.

Yuuri starts a little, and unwraps Viktor’s jacket, carefully inspecting all the parts.

“It’s all fine,” he says, relief evident in his voice.

“Good,” Viktor replies, his voice softening.

It’s not a long ride back into the city—well, not usually, but the weather’s slowed the normal traffic to a crawl. Again, the only positive aspect of the situation is that Viktor has Yuuri with him.

“So, um, you’ve got worlds in a few weeks, right? In Boston?” Yuuri asks hesitantly, a few minutes into the drive.

“Oh—yeah,” Viktor answers, “I’ve never been to Boston before.”

“I went for a weekend when I was living in New York...it’s really nice. There’s a lot to do there,” Yuuri replies.

“I don’t think Yakov is going to give me much time for sightseeing,” Viktor says regretfully. “He’s been working us to the bone the past few weeks.”

“Us?”

“Mila and Yuri qualified, too—uhh, the other Yuri, the Russian one. I’ve really got to give him a nickname; this is getting confusing.”

“Sorry...”

“It’s not your fault, and it _was_ your name first,” Viktor says, flashing him a smile.

“Anyway, I think Yakov is punishing me for wanting to retire,” Viktor grumbles. It’s kind of nice to be able to commiserate with someone about this—his rinkmates don’t know he’s retiring after the coming season, yet, and he’s certainly not going to complain about Yakov _to_ Yakov, the only other person who knows.

“I...I hope you don’t mind if I ask, but why _are_ you retiring? You’re a _legend._ ”

Viktor’s mouth opens to give him the stock answer, the one he’s been preparing for interviewers and fans, but he closes it again. He _is_ getting older, he _does_ want to end his career on a high note, but it’s not the real reason, and he feels like Yuuri, of all people, deserves something closer to the truth.

“It’s, um, complicated,” he begins lamely. He’s not really sure how to say it. He changes lanes as a tactic to buy himself a little more time to structure his thoughts, but it doesn’t really work. Still, when he opens his mouth, the words start coming. “There was a conversation I overheard once… well, eavesdropped on, really, a few years ago. I was getting coffee at a shop while I was in Canada for a competition... and there was an older woman who was telling a younger one—her daughter, maybe, that she should be careful about making something she loves into her career. That it would seem like a dream at first, but if she burned out on it, and still had to do it, that it would be more like a nightmare...”

Viktor pauses, aware that he’s rambling a little bit, and glances over at Yuuri, but he’s looking on intently, not appearing to be bored by the digression. “Anyway, that’s what happened to me,” he finishes, now keeping his eyes fixed on the road in front of him.

“Oh,” Yuuri says into the resulting silence, barely more than a breath. Viktor braces himself for the expected, _but you’re so good,_ but it doesn’t come. Instead, he asks, “Why stay another year, then?”

Because he’s got a dramatic streak a mile wide? Because he needs time to figure out what to do after this? Because he’s afraid that, if he’s not skating, he’s nothing?

Viktor grimaces. “I’m not sure,” he says instead. “But I can tell you that hearing the music you wrote for that video was the first time I’ve _wanted_ to skate in years.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says again, even more softly. Viktor is a little uncomfortable, honestly. In his own way, he’s a deeply private person, and this is more than he’s used to sharing with anyone.

Viktor glances over to the passenger seat, and Yuuri looks like he’s working up the nerve to say something, but Viktor doesn’t think he’s prepared to continue this line of discussion any further, so he interjects with a forced smile, “But anyway, enough about all that. How are your projects coming along?”

He has to keep his eyes on the road, so he doesn’t _see_ Yuuri dither for a long time before accepting the subject change so much as he _senses_ it.

“Alright, I guess,” he says, finally. “I just finished a concerto for my portfolio...and the recording I took today was the last thing I needed to finish the first of your pieces.”

“Oh? I’m excited to hear it,” Viktor says, and he hears Yuuri take a slightly shaky breath in.

“I also needed to ask, but I’ve been putting it off... the second piece... I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it by the first of April. Is that... will that be okay?” His voice is barely above a whisper by the time he trails off, and when Viktor looks over, the expression on his face is one of barely-restrained panic.

“Of course,” Viktor says quickly, concerned. “Did I say that I needed them by the beginning of April? I’m sorry if I did—any time during the month, or even in May, actually, is fine.”

Yuuri lets out a deep breath, as shaky as the one he’d taken before, and relaxes from the ramrod-straight posture he’d had before.

“Was this stressing you out that much? Viktor asks, going past concerned to slightly alarmed. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“Not your fault,” Yuuri interjects. “I’m just...very anxious about this kind of thing.” He laughs weakly. “Well, everything.”

“Well...” Viktor says, not quite as uncomfortable with this as he was with his _own_ confessions, but it’s still not something he’s used to—he actually goes out of his way to avoid this kind of conversation generally. “Let me know, going forward, if it’s something I can prevent, okay? Anyway, is there something going on—I really don’t need it right away, so if you need more time...”

Yuuri opens his mouth, then closes it, grimacing. “It’s mostly done,” he says, finally. “It’s just…there’s something it’s _missing,_ and I don’t know...I don’t want to give you anything that’s not the best I can make it.”

Viktor’s chest clenches at the raw sincerity in the words, but he feels a little guilty, too. He’d been so focused on what Yuuri could do—had already _done—_ for him that he hadn’t really considered what taking on a project like this would mean for him, when he must already be busy.

“It’s okay,” he says, at last, “I trust you and—take all the time you need. If I can’t get it until _July_ , Yakov will just have to deal with that.”

Yuuri half-laughs at that, and says, his tone a little lighter, “It definitely won’t take _that_ long. But, um, it’s really alright? You’re sure?”

“Definitely,” Viktor assures him.

“Thank you. This is... a huge relief,” Yuuri admits.

“I’m glad I could clear that up for you—but _please_ let me know in the future if you have any more concerns. I feel terrible that I caused you so much stress.”

“It’s, uh, really not your fault,” Yuuri says again, looking down and fidgeting absently with the zipper on Viktor’s jacket, which he’s still got in his lap.

By now, they’re still only about halfway back to town, but the car’s heater is doing a good job of warming up the small space so that Viktor is still unpleasantly damp, but not cold anymore. It’s still pouring down outside, though, and traffic isn’t getting any better.

He steers the conversation onto lighter topics—no more mention of his depression, nor of Yuuri’s anxiety. In fact, they don’t talk about their respective careers at all. No, he tells Yuuri about what a big baby Makkachin had been at her vet checkup a few weeks ago, and Yuuri laughs at the story, but reaches back to ruffle her ears in sympathy. He tells Viktor a similar tale—but about his roommate, and a spider he’d found in the bathroom a few days ago, and Viktor laughs at that in return. By the time he finally manages to get to Yuuri’s apartment to drop him off, he’s realized that despite everything—his panic at seeing Makkachin run away down the beach, getting caught in the rain, and being stuck in traffic—this is the best time he’s had in weeks.

When Yuuri closes the door behind him, waves one last time, and turns to ascend the stairs to his apartment, Makkachin presses her nose against the window and whimpers softly, watching him walk away.

“Yeah,” Viktor says, reaching back to pat her shoulder. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Mother's Day in the US. As such, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my mother, who would hate absolutely everything about this fic.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me!


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a day late! Here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it.
> 
> Special shoutout to my beta [Cloudy](http://cloudmonstachopper.tumblr.com) this week for managing to turn this chapter--which I had unsuccessfully tried to proofread at 1 in the morning--into something approaching readable.

_**(End of March, 2016)** _

 

The sun isn't even up yet when Yuuri wakes up to the sound of screaming.

Well, no, but that's how his half-awake brain interprets the shrill sound of his phone's ringtone. The heaviness in his lids as he cracks one eye open tells him that it’s too early, his alarm isn't supposed to be going off yet. And anyway, that’s a different sound than this one. No, this is the unwelcome jingle of an incoming call.

With a resigned sigh, Yuuri gropes around on his nightstand for his phone, answering it without looking—he knows who this is. The only one who ever calls him this early is his mother, who understands the concept of time zones perfectly, but has yet to accept that her son will never be the morning person she is.

"Good morning, mom," he says sleepily, in Japanese. "You're going to have to give me a minute to wake up, please."

"Uh, hi, Yuuri?" Replies a voice, in English, thatdoesn't sound _anything_ like Katsuki Hiroko, and Yuuri sits bolt upright in bed.

"Viktor!" He says, voice cracking, and clears his throat. "Um, hi."

"Did I wake you up?" Viktor asks, sounding apologetic.

"No, no, I was up," Yuuri lies.

"Okay," Viktor says, sounding like he doesn't believe him, and goes on, "I'm really sorry to call you so early, but I..." He sighs.

"What is it?" Yuuri asks into the silence.

Viktor lets out a humorless laugh, and says, "This is so _incredibly_ unprofessional of me, but I just got a call from Makkachin's vet that they've had a water line break, and they're going to be closed for the next week or so while they get that fixed."

"Oh no, isn’t worlds this week?" Yuuri asks, starting to wake up more fully, but still too sleep-fogged to quite piece together the situation.

"Yes, I’m flying out tonight, and that's, uh, that's why I'm calling you. If they're closed, I don't have anyone to look after her, but I was thinking about how well she's taken to _you_ and—" He sighs again, and asks, "Is there any way you might be able to watch her for me while I'm in Boston? Again, I'm _so_ sorry to have to ask you this—"

Yuuri, heart thundering in his chest, interjects, "Yes, of course; I'd love to!"

"Really?" Viktor says, his tone much brighter.

"Yes, really, I'd—" Yuuri begins, but stops there. Shit, no, that's right. "Wait, I can't, I'm sorry… My apartment complex doesn't allow dogs."

Viktor laughs again, but this time there's warmth in the sound. "I wouldn't ask to impose _that_ much; she can be a handful. I know my place isn’t exactly close enough to you for you to just stop by, so I was thinking that you could stay at my apartment while I'm out of town."

"Oh," Yuuri says, trying to process the whole situation—it's way too early for this. So, he says the only thing he really _can,_ in response to something like this. "Um, sure, yeah, I can do that."

" _Great_ ," Viktor says, sounding _much_ more cheerful than he had at the beginning of this conversation. "That's—thank you so much. Here, I'll text you my address. Could you come by this evening, maybe?"

"Um, sure," Yuuri says again.

"Perfect," Viktor says, "I—uh, I need to go. Running late for final practice—but seriously, I owe you for this."

"It's fine," Yuuri says automatically, "See you this evening."

"See you," he says back, and a second later the line goes dead.

Yuuri falls back onto his mattress and stares at the time on his phone—his alarm isn't set to go off for almost another hour, but the way his heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears, he doesn't think he's going to manage to go back to sleep.

As he blinks the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and mind, Yuuri tries to sort all this out. Oh, god, he's going to be spending the next _week_ at Viktor's apartment. Viktor himself won't be there, sure, but just the fact of the matter alone is overwhelming.

On the plus side, he'll get as much time as he wants with Makkachin, who he's become very attached to, against his better judgment. On the downside, there's so many ways this could go south _._ Really, he and Viktor barely know one another, and this is a _huge_ gesture of trust. Yuuri can't stand the idea that something might go wrong—Makkachin getting hurt, him breaking something of Viktor's, or any of the other thousand scenarios flashing through his mind.

The east-facing window slowly grows brighter while he considers this, and Yuuri figures he should just get up and maybe go to school a little early—he wouldn't mind a few extra minutes to play his cello before his morning seminar. Practicing always manages to still his mind, even when it's running in circles and away like this.

Decision made, he forces himself to sit up, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands before finding his glasses and putting them on. He gets dressed and brushes his teeth on autopilot, thoughts miles away, still focused on the week to come. At some point in this process his phone lights up again, a text notification bearing the address to an apartment building across town, along with another expression of fervent gratitude.

He arrives at the conservatory with over an hour to spare before his seminar begins, so he grabs his cello from its locker and climbs the stairs to his favorite practice room. He’s been so busy, lately, with classes and projects; it's been too long since he's given himself a few minutes to do just play for the sake of playing. It grounds him, the way it has since his earliest lessons with Minako.

By the time he needs to pack up and go on to the lecture hall, he’s feeling a lot calmer about what’s going on. Makkachin is a dog, and Yuuri is _good_ with dogs in a way that he never has been with people. He has plenty of experience with this—nothing bad is going to happen. Well, it’s unlikely, and that’s enough for him to shove his anxiety aside for the moment and focus on school.

Graduate school really suits Yuuri, he thinks. He’s heard some horror stories from other students, but it’s not really turning out that way for him. Well, to be fair, he _is_ busy and exhausted all the time, but in general, he likes it. He’s got less in the way of structured classes compared to his undergrad years, and more time to build his portfolio and work on projects. He thinks he might change his tune when he has to start really working on his thesis soon, but that’s something to worry about _after_ he finishes this project for Viktor, at the very least.

Speaking of, he’s finished recording for the short program piece, with the help of Phichit, Guang-Hong, and Renata—who _had_ agreed to help him in return for a box of pastries from her favorite bakery, a price Yuuri _gladly_ paid. He thinks he’ll be able to finish that one within the week; he just needs to mix the track and add a few electronic effects to finish it off.

The missing piece to the other one, though, is still eluding him. No matter what he improvises or tries out, it never seems right. He’s glad beyond measure that Viktor had clarified when he needs the finished pieces by, or he doesn’t think he’d have managed to get _any_ sleep over the past few weeks, he’d have been so stressed out over it.

As it is, the lack of insight into his own work is causing him enough stress. Yuuri makes a face and leans forward to rest his chin on his crossed arms, tuning back into the professor’s lecture. There’s a lot on his mind, and this is going to be a long day—he’s having a very hard time focusing on how parallel fifths are used in pastoral music.

Nevertheless, Yuuri does make it through his seminar, a brief impromptu meeting with his advising professor, and his afternoon class. Then, _finally,_ it’s over and he takes the bus home.

He’s not sure if he’s glad to see Phichit in the living room when he opens the door to their apartment or not—he loves his friend, but he’s dreading this conversation.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Phichit greets him with a wave.

“Hey,” he says back, dropping his schoolbag onto their rickety table in the kitchen.

“Oh, I forgot to ask you earlier, do you want to go to that Italian place a few blocks over for dinner tonight? They’ve got a special that I keep hearing is really good.”

Yuuri hesitates, but figures he might as well break the news now and get it over with, like ripping off a bandaid.

“I can’t,” he answers, shrugging sheepishly.

“My treat?” Phichit offers, and Yuuri sighs a little.

“I mean—thank you, but it’s not that. I actually can’t—I have plans and I’ll be out this evening,” he clarifies, then hesitates. After a long moment, he adds, “And also… For the next week or so, probably.”

Phichit sits up from where he’d been sprawled across the couch and says, “Okay, you can’t just say that then not explain. Spill the deets.”

Yuuri laughs at the phrasing, dispelling some of his apprehension, and goes to sit on their well-worn armchair, pulling his legs up onto the cushion. “I’ve been asked to dog-sit for a while,” he says, finally.

“Oh? For who?” Phichit asks, though a look of dawning comprehension is already in his eyes.

“Viktor,” Yuuri mutters, speaking as quickly and softly as he thinks he can get away with.

“Ah,” Phichit says calmly, “That will be fun for you, right? I know you love dogs.”

Yuuri blinks, surprised by the lack of reaction.

“That’s, uh, all you have to say about it?” Yuuri asks, the apprehension returning.

“Yep; what else would I say?” Phichit asks, projecting an air of innocence.

“Well, you usually—incorrectly, by the way—try to convince me that he’s into me,” Yuuri says, feeling himself blush as he says it.

Phichit puts a hand over his heart, looking affronted. “You _asked_ me to stop doing that; I’m just respecting your wishes. Unless,” he pauses, a wicked grin creeping across his face, “have you changed your mind? Do you _want_ me to keep pointing out obvious facts after all?”

“No, no, I just… I guess I’m surprised you’re actually doing it,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes. He looks over at his friend, and despite Phichit’s words, he looks like he’s about to explode—the way he _always_ looks when he wants to share a juicy bit of gossip. Yuuri sighs. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”

“I am _literally_ dying as we speak.”

“You’re going to text Leo and Guang-Hong about this as soon as I go, aren’t you?”

“The very second you leave the room,” Phichit confirms, the words coming out in a rush of breath, and despite himself, Yuuri laughs at that, too.

“Well, I guess I’m glad my _employment_ situation is providing you all with such entertainment?” He says, pitching it as a question, though he’s unable to hold back a grin.

“Yes, _employment,_ of course. I definitely call a person who I think of as nothing more than an employee when I need someone to watch my beloved pet,” Phichit says, sarcasm oozing from the words.

Yuuri, however, deliberately ignores the tone, and replies, “See? You get it. It’s exactly like that.”

Once again, Phichit’s smile looks like it’s hiding a scream, but Yuuri shakes his head and gets up, waggling his fingers in a small, cheeky wave. He needs to quit this conversation while he’s still arguably ahead—and he needs to pack if he’s going to be staying at Viktor’s apartment for a whole week.

And with that thought, all the nerves return.

He’d done a pretty good job of avoiding thinking about it all day, but Phichit’s words bring it to the surface of his mind again: why _had_ Viktor called him about watching Makkachin? Sure, her vet is closed, and sure, he does get along with her fairly well, but there are plenty of kennels and boarding services in the city. Why wouldn’t Viktor choose one of them instead of someone who he barely knows?

Well, he thinks as he begins carefully folding shirts and stowing them away in his duffel bag, he supposes it doesn’t matter too much—it’s already done and he agreed to it; that’s all there is to it. He snorts at the thought—as if that line of logical reasoning has ever worked on his anxiety.

While he packs, he works up the nerve to send Viktor a text, writing and rewriting it in his head until he’s satisfied with it.

‘ _Hi Viktor. I’m out of class. Is it alright if I head over?’_

He’s only had time to fold a few pairs of pants and add them to the bag when his phone buzzes on the nightstand with a reply: _‘Of course! Would you like me to call you a cab?’_

Quickly, Yuuri replies, _‘It’s okay; please don’t trouble yourself! I can take the bus.’_ He’d checked earlier, and there is a bus stop only a couple of blocks from Viktor’s apartment, but he would have declined the offer even had that not been the case—he already feels indebted to Viktor for so much—his time, his trust, and all the favors he’s done Yuuri so far, he doesn’t think he can deal with anything else.

‘ _Ok… if you’re sure,’_ Viktor replies. _‘At least tell me what you want for dinner?’_

Yuuri shakes his head and answers, _‘Really, it’s alright! You don’t have to go out of your way for me.’_

He barely manages to get anything done before it buzzes again. _‘With all the trouble you’re going through for me, dinner is really the least I can do._ ’ While he’s still trying to process this, another message appears. _‘Please let me know what you want, or I’m just going to surprise you._ ’

With a sigh, Yuuri gives in. _‘Anything’s fine,_ ’ he types, wanting to impose as little as Viktor will let him.

He doesn’t even get a chance to set the phone down again when, _‘Ok, a surprise it is,_ ’ pops up on the screen, followed by a smirking emoji with devil horns. Despite his lingering reservations, Yuuri smiles at that, and finishes gathering everything he’ll need for the next week.

With that done he heads for the door, bidding Phichit farewell and dodging his subtext-laden look as he ducks through the living room and walks out to the bus stop.

It’s actually quite a ways to Viktor’s apartment and Yuuri thinks, with a touch of dismay, that he’s going to have to wake up earlier to make it to school on time—he already has trouble dragging himself out of bed at his usual time under normal circumstances.

Nevertheless, the bus does pull up at the stop eventually, and Yuuri shoulders his bag and steps off. He double-checks the directions on his phone, and walks the few blocks to Viktor’s building. It’s more modern than his own apartment, and much more upscale. That’s unsurprising, since Viktor is a national icon and Yuuri is a music student, but it’s still a little intimidating, juxtaposed like that in his mind.

Pushing his anxiety down, Yuuri ascends the stairs and finds the right unit. He stands outside the door for a long moment—his hands are shaking and his heart is pounding, and he isn’t even sure _why_ he’s as tense as he is, but as always, his nerves don’t respond to logic.

Finally, he steels himself and knocks gently on the door.

Immediately, from inside he can hear a soft _woof_ and the skitter of dog feet tapping across a wood floor. His heart has climbed from his chest into his throat by the time the door opens, and he only has a second to take in the image of Viktor, looking perfect in a t-shirt and athletic pants, before he’s knocked back by the sudden appearance of two furry paws on his chest. He’s top-heavy from the duffel bag over his shoulder; he doesn’t have anything to catch himself on, so he loses his balance completely, falling backward onto the concrete and barely catching himself with his free hand.

Yuuri—a little stunned—doesn’t really have time to process exactly what’s happened because Makkachin is standing over him, gleefully covering his face with wet kisses, and from the door Viktor calls sharply, “Makkachin, no! Bad girl! That’s _very_ rude!”

Seconds later, Makkachin is pulled away from him, and Viktor is holding out a hand, looking vexed and saying, “I am _so_ sorry about that—It seems to be a moot point when you’re involved, but I swear, she doesn’t usually _do_ this kind of thing. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says automatically, and hesitantly reaches out to take the offered hand. As Viktor helps him up, he goes on, “I just wasn’t prepared...” he trails off, and covers his silence by dusting himself off and readjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“For my dog to try to maul you? You shouldn’t have to be,” Viktor finishes for him, voice accusatory, directing this last part at Makkachin, who is standing off to the side, now, not looking contrite at all with her tail still wagging hard enough to shake her whole body.

Despite what had just happened—or maybe because of it—Yuuri laughs softly. “She’s a wonderful dog,” he says. He realizes he’s cradling his right hand, the one that that had been in Viktor’s, with his left, and quickly drops them both to his sides.

“I don’t know _how_ you can think that, after all the times she’s...” It’s his turn to let his words lapse mid-sentence, and he scowls down at her. “Anyway, please come in.”

With that, he pushes the door open wider, and ushers Yuuri in ahead of him, Makkachin scrambling to follow close at his heels. Inside, it’s. Well, it’s exactly how he might have pictured a wealthy celebrity’s apartment looking. Pale wood flooring and high ceilings with track lighting, everything designed to be sleek and modern. He thinks of his own place, comfortable, cozy, but worn, with its threadbare green carpet, beige walls, and dated appliances. And that’s somewhere he still wouldn’t be able to afford if it weren’t for Phichit paying half the bills. He stops just inside the door and slips off his shoes, hiding a grimace in the action—again, the gulf between Viktor and himself seems almost insurmountable.

Viktor, seeming oblivious to this, walks past him into the living room and says brightly, “Would you like to set your bag down? And can I take your coat? Dinner should be here any minute.”

“Oh, um,” Yuuri says, mentally kicking himself for his lack of eloquence, “Sure?” He finishes lamely.

“Anywhere is fine; please make yourself at home,” Viktor says, and Yuuri, who will absolutely _not_ be comfortable enough to do anything like ‘making himself at home’ anytime soon, gingerly sets his duffel down on the floor beside the couch. Makkachin immediately trots over and inspects it thoroughly, sniffing it from end to end and shoving her nose into an outside pocket.

“Stop it; you are being _so rude,_ ” Viktor scolds her again when she does this, and she huffs as if irritated by the command, but nevertheless backs away from the bag—but only so she can lean heavily against Yuuri’s leg, looking up at him with a dog-smile on her face.

“Your place is really nice,” he comments shyly as he shrugs out of his jacket. Viktor holds out a hand to accept it, and Yuuri hesitantly hands it over.

“You probably wouldn’t have thought so if you’d seen it this morning,” Viktor admits with a laugh. He opens a small door that already contains several coats, hanging on a rack. He pulls down an empty hanger and places Yuuri’s jacket on it as he continues, “I was embarrassed for you to see it in the state it was in—I spent all morning cleaning.”

“Oh—you didn’t have to...” Yuuri says, but he trails off again, feeling himself flush. He hides it by looking down to scratch Makkachin’s ears as she eagerly shoves her head into his hands.

“No, no,” Viktor says quickly, “It’s something I’ve been needing to do; I’ve just been… Lacking the motivation.”

Yuuri looks around again, and now that he’s further into the room he can see more of it. And his eyes lock on one object he never expected to see in Viktor Nikiforov’s apartment. He’s about to say something about it, but Viktor speaks before he can.

“Anyway, I can give you the tour?” He offers, and Yuuri nods his acceptance.

Viktor spends a few minutes going through the kitchen and living room, pointing out Makkachin’s food, treats, and grooming tools, and telling Yuuri that he’s welcome to eat anything in the pantry or make free use of any of the appliances—he agrees politely, even though he knows he’s too worried about breaking something to actually use anything—and opening a utility closet to show him where the laundry machines are.

“This door goes to the bedroom,” he’s saying, Yuuri following a few steps behind. “Sheets and blankets were washed this morning, and if you get cold there are more in the closet.” And there, Yuuri has to stop dead, because there is _no way_ he can sleep in Viktor’s bed.

“I don’t—I can sleep on the couch,” Yuuri protests, putting his hands up and not stepping into the room.

Viktor blinks, and Yuuri can’t read his expression, but after a moment he says simply, “Well, I guess, if you want to, but I have to warn you that it’s more stylish than comfortable.”

Yuuri just nods, and figures he can deal with a crick in his neck if it spares him the absolute mortification of the other option. Still, when Viktor motions him into the room and says, “Anyway, the bathroom is through here,” Yuuri can’t resist a quick look around the room as he goes to follow. It’s spacious, as elegantly designed at the rest of the apartment, and he has to admit that the bed _does_ look inviting, covered in a thick plush comforter and big enough for _three_ people. Or, Yuuri thinks, remembering how his dog liked to stretch out, one person and a large dog.

The bathroom is large too, and the first room that Yuuri can describe as ‘messy’ at all, and it’s really just that there are a lot of things in it. The counter is covered in tubes and bottles of product, and Viktor laughs when he catches the surprised look on Yuuri’s face.

“Did you think my skin was this perfect naturally?”

“Actually, yes,” Yuuri admits, then blushes because he’s just implied that he _does_ think Viktor’s skin is perfect—which, to be fair, _is_ an objective fact. Still, he’s _not_ doing a great job maintaining a wall of professionalism between his heart and Viktor, so he can’t help but be hyper-aware of the implications of everything he says.

But Viktor just laughs again and turns away, pointing out the cabinet where he keeps the towels and first-aid supplies. Yuuri’s working up the nerve to say something, to ask about Makkachin’s routines or something else that’s relevant, but he’s saved from having to do it when a knock sounds on the front door—Makkachin _woofs_ lowly at that and moves to stand protectively in front of Yuuri.

“That should be the food,” Viktor says, and holds up a finger in the universal gesture for _‘_ _just a moment_ _’_ as he goes to answer the door. Yuuri trails behind him, a little uncomfortable with being left alone in someone else’s home, but when Makkachin presses close against his leg, he smiles and pats her, a little reassured. Her greeting may have been overly enthusiastic, but he knows for sure that at least _one_ of this apartment’s residents is happy to have him here. Dogs are so much easier than people.

He overhears a brief exchange in Russian from the door, and when Viktor turns and shuts the door again, he’s got a large paper sack cradled in his other arm.

“Hungry?” He asks, and as if in response to the question, there’s a pang in Yuuri’s stomach—he actually _hasn’t_ eaten anything since this morning.

“Famished,” he answers with a slight grin.

“Then I hope you like what I got you,” Viktor says, returning the smile as he goes to set the bag onto a tall pub-style table before disappearing further into the kitchen.

“I’m sure I will,” Yuuri murmurs, and peeks around the corner to see Viktor staring bemusedly into his open refrigerator.

“It looks like the only thing I have to drink is beer,” he says, and glances over apologetically, “So, uh, that or water?”

Yuuri hesitates—he _really_ wouldn’t mind a drink to take the edge off his nerves, but he knows he can get... _r_ _owdy_ when he’s drinking. It definitely takes him more than one, but still, he’d better not. “Water’s fine,” he answers, and Viktor nods.

“Okay,” he says, but takes a can out of the fridge anyway. “Yakov would _kill_ me if he knew I was drinking right before a competition, and I take pleasure in spiting him,” Viktor explains.

“You sound like you really don’t like your coach,” Yuuri comments.

“Hm?” Viktor says, taking down a glass from the cabinet. “Oh, it’s not like that. He’s the best coach I’ve ever had. But he can be...” He hesitates, seeming to consider his words while he’s filling the cup with water. “Demanding,” he finishes.

“Well, he’s not going to find out from me,” Yuuri offers lamely, but the way Viktor beams at him as he returns to the table, drinks in hand, makes him feel like he’s managed to say something incredibly witty.

He takes a seat on one of the leather-cushioned stools as Viktor takes the one opposite him, sliding the water toward Yuuri before going for the food.

Whatever is in the bag smells wonderful—and it’s a familiar scent.

Viktor peeks into the first container, and says, “This one’s mine.”

While he digs into the bottom of the sack for the other container, Yuuri takes a look at the plastic dish full of stir-fried vegetables and small chunks of meat. It’s not the same recipe, of course, and it’s much more elaborate than what his mother makes for simple meals in Hasetsu, but it’s unmistakably yasai itame.

“You got Japanese food?” Yuuri asks, a smile creeping up his face as Viktor is pulling the second container out of the bag.

He actually looks like he blushes at that, though it was probably just heat rising off the food or something, and he says, “I wanted to make sure I ordered something you would like.”

Yuuri’s about to say something in reply, but when he opens the deep bowl-shaped container that’s been placed in front of him, he forgets, and his mouth goes slack.

“Katsudon,” he whispers, and looks up at Viktor. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” he asks, looking a little confused.

“This is _literally_ my favorite food,” Yuuri says, looking again at the bowl of pork and onion and egg to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

“I didn’t,” Viktor admits after a long second, “I actually just got it because I didn’t know what to order you, but this sounded a little like your last name.” He grins, and shrugs a shoulder elegantly. “Just lucky, I guess?”

Yuuri shakes his head a little at that, but can’t stop the delighted smile that creeps over his face. It’s been _years_ since he’s had katsudon, and, well, there’s no way this will be as perfectly delicious as his mother’s, but _any_ katsudon is good katsudon.

“Well… Thank you for dinner,” Yuuri says, and slides one of the pairs of chopsticks that came with the food closer to himself.

“Thank _you_ for taking care of Makkachin on such short notice—really, dinner is the _least_ I can do,” Viktor says, and Makkachin, hearing her name, sits up straight, resting her chin on Viktor’s knee and whimpering softly. “No, none for you,” he tells her, and she backs off, but only to give Yuuri the same treatment.

“He’s not going to give you any, either,” Viktor tells her, then looking up at Yuuri, the picture of guilelessness, says, “I don’t know _where_ she’s picked up these bad manners.”

“I wonder,” Yuuri says with a grin—they _both_ know dogs don’t beg like this unless they’re used to getting treats at the table. Viktor proves this, a second later, by slipping a piece of meat from his food under the table for her.

Finally, Yuuri picks up a bite of pork from his own dish, and pops it into his mouth, immediately forgetting about Viktor, about music, and everything else; it’s so good he thinks he might have actually moaned in pleasure. Perfectly seasoned, fried crispy, and so rich with egg and caramelized onion flavors that Yuuri thinks he could die happy, if he only gets to eat one more bite of this. So, he does just that, and the second taste is just as good as the first.

He comes back to his surroundings, and opens his eyes to see Viktor looking right at him, his mouth half-open, his face flushed enough that Yuuri has to wonder if this restaurant makes their yasai itame spicy. Quickly, Viktor looks away and clears his throat, asking, “Is it good?”

“Very,” Yuuri confirms, taking a sip of water to hide his own blush, and then takes another bite of his food.

“So, um,” he begins, a moment later, “When does your flight leave?”

Viktor swallows a bite of his own food, and says, sounding unhappy about it, “A little after two in the morning.”

“Wow, that’s… late,” Yuuri remarks.

“You’re telling me. It was Yakov’s decision,” Viktor says, rolling his eyes, and Yuuri _still_ isn’t convinced he doesn’t hate his coach. Of course, when he considers what Viktor had told him when they’d unexpectedly met up on the beach a few weeks ago… Well, it’s easy to resent someone who pushes and demands perfection in something when there’s no joy in it.

It still surprises Yuuri that he can skate the way he does and not care about it, but he understands, too, in a roundabout way. What would _he_ do if something happened to cause him to lose his passion for music, his drive to create? He doesn’t know, but the thought is harrowing. It’s all he’s cared about doing for almost as long as he can remember. It’s all he knows. He suspects it’s the same for Viktor. And the tone of his voice, the expression on his face when he’d admitted that to Yuuri... Honestly, he’s not particularly great at reading people, but he knows raw, vulnerable honesty when he sees it.

But then, there had been that exhibition skate. That’s something Yuuri hasn’t quite been able to figure out, and he’s afraid to bring it up, now—it feels like it’s been too long. Viktor had looked so genuinely happy to be on the ice, then.

Yuuri peeks up over the rim of his glass as he sips his water, sees Viktor looking down at his own food. He wishes he knew what was going on in his head. He never would have guessed it from the interviews he’d watched over the past couple of years or and articles written about him—those all paint Viktor as a cheerful individual, polite, dapper, and well-spoken, but with little depth—but there’s a quiet somberness to him when he thinks no one is watching. Yuuri thinks back to those words— “ _hearing the music you wrote for that video was the first time I’ve wanted to skate in years_ ” —and has to duck his head again to hide a blush. That’s something else he doesn’t quite know what to make of.

In retrospect, he feels silly for thinking he could have gotten an accurate picture of Viktor from what he chose to present to the media, but, well, the difference _is_ remarkable. They haven’t really spent much time together since meeting a few months ago, but Yuuri thinks he might be starting to peel back the veneer of shallow charm and charismatic sparkle, and what he’s seeing underneath is someone who is as isolated by success as he is uplifted by it.

He realizes that, in his silent rumination, he’s waited too long to respond to Viktor’s last comment, but it’s still his turn to speak. For another few seconds, he flails about for a conversation topic, and his mind settles on that unexpected, incongruous item he’d seen when he’d first stepped into the apartment.

“I, um, I didn’t know you played,” he says, finally, gesturing to a spot behind Viktor.

He takes a second, swallowing a bite of food, and glances over his shoulder before asking, “The piano?” When Yuuri nods, Viktor shrugs, his lips curling into a bittersweet facsimile of his real smile. “I don’t, actually. I inherited that.”

“Oh?” Yuuri asks, deeply curious. He hasn’t had a chance to look closely at it, but from a single glance he could tell that it’s a beautiful instrument.

“My great aunt left it to me in her will. I suspect she meant to give it to a niece on her husband’s side—Viktoria, but, well, she’s not exactly _around_ to ask about it.” He shrugs, and Yuuri half-laughs at the morbid joke.

“I, um, I’m sorry for your loss,” he offers, but Viktor shrugs again, flippantly this time.

“I don’t remember if I ever actually met her. I’m not close with my family. But either way, now I have a piano.” He pauses, takes a swig from his drink, and adds, “I thought about learning, when it got delivered to me, but between the skating and... everything else, I never got around to it.”

Yuuri lights up, because _this_ is something he knows about. “It’s not too late to learn—I can think of a few people off the top of my head who would be thrilled to teach you.” Specifically, Phichit comes to mind—earlier that week, he’d been idly talking about offering lessons, to make some extra money and build his resume.

But Viktor smiles at him, tilts his head to the side, and asks, “Is that an offer?”

Yuuri can feel himself go _scarlet,_ and he quickly stammers, “I didn’t… I actually meant... A _real_ pianist would be much better.”

Viktor blinks, and says, “I was joking—I’m sorry.” He pauses for a second, furrowing his brow, and says, “What do you mean by a ‘ _real’_ pianist?”

“I mean,” Yuuri says, looking down because he _can’t_ maintain eye contact right now, “Someone who’s actually studied piano, not someone who just picked up enough to get by.”

Viktor _hmms,_ twirling a piece of carrot in his chopsticks, and finally asks, “ _You_ were the one playing in everything I’ve heard of yours so far, right?”

“Yes,” Yuuri admits, because as far as he knows, Viktor’s still only heard the piece he’d written over winter break, which he’d specifically arranged with his own instrument skills and proficiencies in mind.

“Then you’re _already_ the best pianist I know,” Viktor says easily, and pops carrot he’d been playing with into his mouth.

Yuuri wants to protest again, to argue that he’s barely competent and clams up when he has to play in front of anyone, but he bites his tongue. He’s been told more than once that he doesn’t know how to take a compliment, so he casts his eyes down at his remaining food and half-whispers a small, “Thank you.”

Viktor says, “And anyway, I really don’t think I have the time to dedicate to learning.” He shrugs an elegant shoulder once more, dismissively.

Yuuri doesn’t really _mean_ to speak; it just kind of happens. “It doesn’t take very long to learn the basics. I could... I _could_ show you that, if you want.” As soon as they’re out of his mouth, Yuuri wants to call the words back. This is overstepping professional boundaries; it’s not his place. Quickly he says, “But, um, I’m sure you want to rest up before your flight, or something, so please don’t...” he trails off, glancing up and bracing himself to see irritation or annoyance on Viktor’s face, but it’s not there—if anything, he looks _delighted_ at the prospect.

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping before the flight,” he says, “So... If you don’t mind, I’d like that.” Then, he breaks into a grin, and Yuuri notices, for the first time, that when Viktor smiles for real, not for the media, his mouth is shaped a little like a cartoon heart. He also notices, his heart _thumping_ loudly in his chest, and _not_ for the first time that Viktor is beautiful when he smiles.

“I, well, of course. I _did_ offer,” Yuuri says, because there’s no way he could have said no after seeing that look on Viktor’s face.

He finishes the rest of his dinner, and it’s still wonderful, but he doesn’t taste it nearly as much now that his whole body is filled with a tight bubble of anticipation. He’s not really anxious, he realizes as he scoops up the last grains of rice in his bowl. He’s _excited._

Viktor finishes his own food and collects all the empty takeout containers to take to the trash. With that done, he feeds Makkachin—Yuuri paying close attention to how much he gives her—and then looks brightly over at him.

“Should we get started?” he asks, and Yuuri – a little nervous now, but still no dread – grins shyly and nods.

Viktor leads him to the piano, which is even lovlier up close, upright and paneled in a wood so dark that it’s almost black. He notices that there’s not a speck of dust anywhere on it—Viktor really _must_ have spent the day cleaning everything. With reverent hands, Yuuri slides the cover open, and inhales sharply in surprise.

“Hm?” Viktor asks.

“This must be very old,” he says, unable to resist touching his fingers to the pale yellow-white of the keys. There’s a subtle grain to them, and they feel warm and almost soft to the touch. “The keys are real ivory,” Yuuri explains. It’s been illegal to trade in ivory for decades, and for good reason, but it does make for a beautiful instrument, and if the inside is as well-kept as the outside, one in fantastic shape, for its age.

“I don’t actually know how old it is, but I’ll take your word for it,” Viktor says, scooting out the piano bench and taking a seat on one end. Yuuri hesitates—the bench isn’t really designed to fit two people, particularly not two full-grown men. Still, he can’t very well demonstrate what to do if he’s hanging back, so he gingerly sits on the other end. Even partially hanging off the side, his thigh is practically pressed against Viktor’s. Yuuri just takes a deep breath and tries not to dwell on it.

“So, um,” he asks, looking at the keys so that he doesn’t have to look at Viktor, “How much do you know about music?”

“Nothing at all,” Viktor says, shrugging apologetically, but Yuuri can feel the shift against his own shoulder, and gosh, he’s really too close for comfort.

Yuuri chuckles softly to relieve his tension, and replies, “Okay, I’ll start at the very beginning.” He wracks his brain, determinedly focusing on anything other than the man whose warmth he feels seeping into his side even now, trying to remember his very first music lessons with Minako. He’d been so young that the memory is hazy, where it exists at all. So he improvises. “Um, the notes are named after the first seven letters of the latin alphabet,” he explains, and sets his finger on one. “This is C,”he says, pressing the key. Moving up one, he says, “D,” and continues up the octave to the next C.

“Why did you start at C instead of A?” Viktor asks.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, a little at a loss—this is something he’s been doing for so long, something so fundamental to who he is, that he’s not sure how to teach someone with _no_ background in it at all. Especially considering that it’s someone he really doesn’t want to disappoint.

“That’s probably skipping ahead a few lessons, but it has to do with different keys, and major and minor scales,” he says, after thinking about his answer for a long moment. “I just played you a C-major scale.” Quickly, he plays the eight notes again, and goes on, “Beginners usually learn C first because it’s just the white notes, and it’s easier to remember. If I were to start on A...” He plays through a natural A-minor scale, and asks, “Can you hear the difference?”

“The second one sounds… More sad?” Viktor says, and Yuuri nods, grinning.

“You can really hear it if you play a chord...” he says, and presses his fingers down on the A-C-E keys, but grimaces as soon as the notes sound.

“Something wrong?” Viktor asks, sounding a little alarmed.

Yuuri blushes, and says, “I didn’t notice at first but, um, your piano is pretty out of tune.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, “I’m not surprised; it hasn’t been played in years. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Yuuri chuckles and admits, “Neither do I. Phichit would—he’s like the piano whisperer, but all I know how to do is play, and I’m not _great_ at that.”

“Mm, I still think you’re selling yourself short,” Viktor says, “Is it okay, though? To keep going.”

Yuuri blinks in surprise, both at the compliment and the fact that Viktor seems to _want_ to continue the lesson, that Yuuri’s mediocre instruction hasn’t put him off.

“I—sure, if you want to,” Yuuri says, just to confirm, and Viktor nods. So he does, dropping the discussion of key signatures since it’s really a little too advanced, and instead going through a few mnemonics and simple tunes designed to help children learn the notes, and hopes he doesn’t sound patronizing. If he does, though, Viktor gives no sign.

“Um, would you like to try?” he asks hesitantly after a few minutes of this, referring to the exercise he had just demonstrated.

“Ah, okay,” Viktor says, sounding unsure for the first time. Almost reluctantly, he places his hands on the keys, trying to imitate what Yuuri had done a few moments before, and looks over for approval.

He’s found the right notes, but his hand position isn’t quite correct, and Yuuri mentally kicks himself for forgetting to go over that.

“It’s more like...” he tries to show the correct posture, but Viktor doesn’t quite get it, and Yuuri swallows, working up his nerve. “Is it alright if I...?” He finishes the question with a gesture in the direction of Viktor’s hands.

“Oh, sure,” he answers, and Yuuri takes a deep breath to steady himself before tentatively reaching over to adjust Viktor’s hand position, moving his fingers into the correct alignment. He keeps his touch light, but it’s impossible not to feel how warm and smooth his skin is. Even worse, he’s got to lean in to reach him, their shoulders pressed together, and for just a second, he gets a tantalizing whiff of that spicy, woodsy cologne Viktor wears. He wants to shove his face into his neck, chasing the scent. That would be _so far_ over a line that he’s afraid he might already be straddling.

So, instead, he pulls back, feeling the burn in his cheeks and ears, and says, “Like that,” in a small voice, barely above a whisper.

He’s looking at the keys, but in his peripheral vision, Yuuri can see that Viktor isn’t—he’s got his face turned, looking right at him. Viktor looks like he wants to say something, but after a second, he makes a sound that’s half-sigh, half-laugh, and looks at his hands.

“I seem to have forgotten the exercise,” he says, “Can you show me again?”

So Yuuri does, and before he’s ready to quit, Viktor has managed to play a very simple Russian folk song, hesitant and stumbling, but definitely recognizable, and the grin on his face makes all the awkwardness worth it.

It’s pretty clear that this is all Yuuri can do without trying to teach Viktor to read music, and he has no idea if he’s even _interested_ in that at all, let alone right before leaving for a competition. So, he flashes Viktor a smile and says, “You’re picking this up really quickly—I don’t think there’s anything else I can show you tonight, though.”

He’s not really sure what comes now—it’s still hours before Viktor needs to leave for the airport. Still, what he _does_ say is not one of the possibilities Yuuri’s been preparing himself for.

“Will you play something for me?” He asks, and Yuuri blanches at the question. Viktor, reading the discomfort in his face, immediately asks, “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Yuuri assures him, and, looking forward rather than over at him, explains, “I just, um, I get really nervous when I play in front of people.”

“It’s just me,” Viktor says, his voice a little puzzled, but warm.

“I know,” Yuuri says, more softly this time, “It’s...” He trails off, still not _entirely_ comfortable playing for his closest friends, let alone Viktor, who is _famous—_ but Yuuri stops that train of thought there, because it’s not really right, not anymore. He hasn’t thought of Viktor as a celebrity for a while now. The day they’d both gotten caught in the rain on the beach, that Viktor had completely dropped his façade, had knocked away the last vestiges of his starstruck awe.

The more he gets to know Viktor, the farther the image of the man he’d cobbled together from videos and interviews fades from his mind. And yet, with every new thing, he finds Viktor more compelling, more fascinating. He _is_ flirty, and maybe a little flighty, but he’s also dedicated, patient, and steady. His words can be a little thoughtless, but he can also be very sweet and devoted. And on top of all that, Yuuri’s starting to realize that Viktor may be lonely—he’s at the very top of his sport, and it can’t be easy to make friends when the people he interacts most with are also his competitors. No matter how friendly it is, the rivalry aspect must be hard to get past. Maybe that’s why he’s been so much more kind to Yuuri than he strictly needed to be, but he’s not going to presume. Still, he’s grateful for the opportunity to see the man behind the gold medals.

He’s definitely not starstruck, not anymore, but he _likes_ Viktor. Maybe more than he should, and he doesn’t want to let him down.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, after a long, contemplative silence. And Yuuri sets his fingers to the keys. His mind isn’t sure what he’s going to play, but his hands seem to know. It’s one of his own pieces—one he’d written years ago, when he was just beginning to get the hang of composing his own music. It’s simple, with a wistful twist in the melody, but it’s fun to play. His hands shake a little, knowing that he’s being watched, but he gets absorbed in the music regardless, hardly even noticing when he needs to move over to reach the lower keys, his thigh going completely flush against Viktor’s.

Somewhere in this impromptu performance, Makkachin gets up from her spot on the couch, trots over, and takes a seat right next to the bench. After a second or two of watching politely, she turns up her muzzle, and begins howling in time with the music.

Viktor breathes out a half-laugh the instant this happens, and Yuuri—used to dealing with this from when he’d had his own dog—manages to play a few more phrases. Makkachin keeps singing along, as if this had been the plan from the start, but Viktor’s composure slips, his shoulders starting to shake with laughter. It draws Yuuri in, too; he has to drop his hands from the keys, because now he’s laughing too hard to focus, too.

Makkachin, seemingly affronted, stops howling, but begins making noises that Yuuri can only describe as _complaining,_ marching her feet in place, and that elicits a fresh peal of mirth from both men. Playfully, Yuuri reaches out and sounds a few chords, which sets her off again, raising her head and belting out an accompanying song. Viktor’s leaning his full weight against Yuuri now, and it’s really _nice—_ especially when he puts his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, seeming to need to steady himself as he shakes with near-silent laughter.

Eventually Makkachin huffs, her posture saying _‘Everyone’s a critic,’_ and she stalks off with as much dignity as she can manage. It takes both of them another long moment to regain their composure, but finally Yuuri can breathe normally, interrupted by just a few stray giggles. Viktor is in the same state, though the smile doesn’t fall from his face. He doesn’t take his arm from around Yuuri’s shoulders, either, and Yuuri doesn’t pull away.

“I think she liked it,” Viktor says, finally, and the well-timed sigh from Makkachin, across the room, sets them both to laughing again for another few seconds.

“That may be the best reaction to a performance I’ve ever had,” Yuuri says, grinning up at Viktor, unconsciously leaning in as he does it.

“I liked it, too,” Viktor says, and his hand slides down from Yuuri’s shoulder to rest on his lower back. And Yuuri tenses—he can’t help it. As casual a gesture it is, it still feels remarkably intimate. He just… Doesn’t get touched by a lot of people.

Maybe Viktor notices him stiffen, because just a second later, his hand drops completely, he straightens up, and asks in a slightly more cordial tone, “Did you write that one, too?”

Yuuri just nods, casting his eyes down, his shoulders going even tighter—this time with anxiety. He’s managed to do the wrong thing—of course.

“I—ah,” Viktor says, “Makkachin probably needs to go outside.” And with that, he gets up. Yuuri had—of course—been hyper-aware of every inch of their bodies that had so much as brushed together, but the reality of how close they’d been only sinks in when the chill of the room replaces the warmth Viktor had been radiating.

“Um, okay,” he replies, and Viktor flashes him a quick, not-quite-genuine smile before turning and calling Makkachin—who jumps down from the couch and trails him to the door.

The minute the door closes behind them, Yuuri lets out a loud, shaky breath. His heart’s sunk into his stomach, and he tries—fruitlessly—to fight back a tide of thoughts of what he might have said to try to avoid this sudden discomfort, and what Viktor might be thinking about him right now. To distract himself, he stands up, pushes in the piano bench and gently slides the cover back over the keys.

He mills about awkwardly for another few moments, trying to figure out what to do now. Unfortunately, running home isn’t an option. He’d promised he’d watch Makkachin, and he’s not going to renege on that now, but he can’t deny that the thought is tempting. Finally, Yuuri takes the couple of steps over to the couch, sits gingerly on the edge nearest his bag, and pulls out his phone.

He spends the time flipping through previously-answered texts, not reading a word, but it feels better to have something to do with his hands than to try and sit completely still.

It seems like it takes forever for Viktor to return with Makkachin, but when the door opens, it’s still far too soon. The moment she gets inside, she heads straight for Yuuri, shoving her head between his knees and up under his hands so that she forces him to look at her instead of at his phone. Yuuri smiles wanly at that, feeling a little more grounded touching her, sets the phone down on the little table beside the couch before gratefully sinking his hands into the thick fur on her head to gently scratch behind her ears.

Viktor hangs back a little, in comparison, lingering by the door to lock it. After a few seconds, though, he too comes over to the couch.

“I forgot to give you this earlier,” he says, rummaging in his pocket before he sits down. Yuuri looks up, curious despite himself, and a moment later, Viktor pulls out a small silver key.

“For the apartment,” he explains, “I got it made this morning.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, taking one hand from Makkachin to accept the key. He leans over to take his own keyring from the pocket of his duffel bag—more so that he has an excuse not to say anything else than for any other reason, and flashes Viktor a small, nervous smile before sliding the key in among his own.

There’s something about the key that makes this all sort of _snap_ into reality. It’s one thing to know that he’ll be staying here for the next week, but another to have a tangible symbol, something that says, _‘I trust you in my home and in my life.’_

“So, it’s still a couple of hours until I need to leave. Is there anything you’d like to do? A movie, maybe?” Viktor offers, sitting down on the couch. He’s in about the middle, not _nearly_ as close as they had been on the piano bench, but still near enough that if Yuuri wanted to, he could reach out and touch him without hardly having to raise his arm—though, of course, he wouldn’t dare.

The proximity makes it so that Yuuri’s brain takes a moment to process the question, and another to come up with a response. He _doesn’t_ point out that Viktor doesn’t appear to own a television, and says, instead, “Are you sure you don’t need to rest before your flight? I don’t want you to be tired during competition on my account.”

Viktor tilts his head and says, “I like to try to stay up before going overseas—it helps with the jet-lag. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine, of course...” This time it’s his turn to trail off.

Yuuri is sure that he’s doing _something_ to make this conversation as stilted and uncomfortable as it is. He’s not great at this, at talking to people—the only reason he _has_ friends is that he’s been ‘adopted’ by people much more extroverted than him, people like Phichit and Leo. They can more or less carry a conversation on their own, with minimal input from him. Still, he has to _try_ to salvage this.

“It’s fine, but only if you want to. I have projects I can work on; I don’t want to bother you,” Yuuri says.

Viktor smiles, and says, “You’re really not—but I should quit distracting you, anyway; you’re already doing me a _huge_ favor and I don’t want to disrupt your schedule any more than I already am.”

“It’s really no trouble,” Yuuri insists, stroking Makkachin’s neck where she’s still standing, staring up at him. In response, she stretches her head up to lick his chin, and he smiles, drawing back out of her reach.

She backs off a few steps when Yuuri leans over to get his laptop out of the duffel bag.

“Do you mind if I plug this in?” He asks, holding up the cord.

“Of course not,” Viktor says, “There’s an outlet on the wall right there.” He gestures at a nearby lamp, and Yuuri gets up to plug the charger in.

When he returns to his spot at the end of the couch, Makkachin tries to jump up with him. There isn’t remotely enough room for her between Viktor and him, so they both get knocked to either side, but she doesn’t give up, forcing her way into the gap.

Viktor breathes out a laugh, and scoots over to accommodate her, saying, “Okay, I guess she wants to be here.” Yuuri smiles over at that, first at the dog, then at him, as Makkachin stretches out, bracing her front paws against Viktor’s thigh with her back half practically in Yuuri’s lap. He pats her absently and rests his laptop on his other leg, openingit and bringing up one of his assignments.

When he looks over again, Viktor is turning on a large tablet that had been on the other end table, drawing up one knee to balance it against.

They talk a little while Yuuri works. Viktor asks about Yuuri’s project, and he tells him it’s an assignment for his digital production class. When pressed for details, he says that he’s been mixing and mastering his own tracks for years, but he’s mostly self-taught, so the class is helping to fill in some of the gaps in his knowledge. Viktor seems so genuinely interested in the explanation that Yuuri can’t help but think he’s actually curious about the music process rather than just being polite, which makes him a little more confident.

Yuuri admits, tangentially, that beyond living in three countries, he hasn’t really done much traveling, so Viktor tells him a little about the different countries he’s been to for competitions and exhibitions—Yuuri is chagrined to hear that Viktor has been to Japan more recently than he has.

It ends up being a really pleasant evening. Yuuri doesn’t get as much work done on his project as he’d hoped to, but he doesn’t want to put on headphones because he’s enjoying talking to Viktor like this, the awkward moment earlier forgotten in the idle chatting of two people who are really starting to get to know one another. It’s easier, too, with Makkachin acting as a physical buffer between them. Yuuri’s mind knows it’s impossible, but his heart—and his body—haven’t quite gotten the memo.

The night deepens, and the effects of a long, anxious day are wearing on Yuuri. His eyelids feel like they’ve got weights attached to them—every time he blinks, he has to physically will himself to open them again. He stares at his laptop’s screen—the assignment is in the same place it had been twenty minutes ago. Maybe he should go ahead and call it quits for the night, he thinks. With a few clicks, he saves his project file and shuts down the computer, closes the lid, and leans over to set it on the end table.

When he settles back into his original position, Makkachin takes his now-empty lap as an invitation, picking herself up from her previous sprawl to drape herself across his legs, her head cradled in the crook of one arm. A surge of affection for her runs through him at this, and he uses his free hand to gently stroke her back. He glances up, after a moment, to see Viktor looking at them, an indefinably soft expression on his face. Yuuri opens his mouth to speak, but Makkachin, seeming to sense that his full attention is no longer on her alone, huffs and lifts her head to lick his chin, and Yuuri forgets whatever he’d been about to say.

He looks back down at her, and she stares back for a long moment, her brown eyes warm in her soft, content face, before she lays her head back down and they go half-lidded immediately. As he resumes petting her, they close completely and her breathing slows and evens out.

He’s comfortable, warm, and it’s so nice to get to cuddle up with a dog for the first time in years. He doesn’t mean to—he’d really intended to stay up until Viktor left for the airport—but there’s no helping it; Yuuri’s own eyes fall shut, and he drifts off.

-

When Viktor raises his head from the article that’s grabbed his attention, he’s greeted by the sight of the most beautiful boy in the world holding the most wonderful dog in the world, both of their eyes closed and breathing deep and even, and his heart clenches, an ache suffusing his chest. He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to leave. Forget skating, forget the world championships. He’s got everything he wants right here.

And yet, it’s still out of his reach.

For a long moment, Viktor closes his eyes too, imagines what it would be like if this were really his, if he could come home every night to this, if he could cross those few scant feet, this ocean of distance between them. If he could put his arms around Yuuri, holding him close, Makkachin sprawled across both their laps. What would it be like to join them, to go to sleep with the comfort of another person’s warmth close against his side, to wake up and still have him there?

He’s never wanted that before, at least not as a tangible, explicit desire. It’s overwhelming, and it’s terrifying.

Viktor’s spent so long living up to everyone else’s standards, living for other people’s expectations, that he’s not sure _how_ to want something purely for himself.

On top of that—he doesn’t know how to _be_ wanted for himself. He truncates himself, tailors his personality to the situation, but he’s already let that mask slip around Yuuri, and he hasn’t drawn back from Viktor because of it. He’d answered honesty with honesty, and that’s something else Viktor isn’t quite sure how to handle.

He thinks back to a few hours ago, when Yuuri had been playing his sorely neglected piano for him, when they’d laughed together. That’s something else that’s new—he can’t remember the last time he’d really laughed, not a polite chuckle at some interviewer’s stale joke, not a quick exhale of breath at some dog meme Mila texts him, but a deep, full-bodied laugh, just because he’d experienced real joy. He remembers unthinkingly putting his arm around Yuuri, how good it had felt to be able to lean against him, his body warm and real and grounding.

The memory sours a little when he recalls how Yuuri had stiffened, had subtly drawn away. Viktor had crossed a line somewhere in there, made Yuuri uncomfortable, and he’s not quite sure where it was, but Viktor regrets it immensely.

Still, having Yuuri beside him, close enough to share warmth, had been nice. He’d surprised himself by actually enjoying the piano lesson itself, too. The whole thing had started out as a ruse to sit close to Yuuri, to maybe get him to have to lean against him, fix the position of his hands—and it had worked splendidly on that front—but by the end, he’d really begun to enjoy the lesson itself. He smiles softly. Oh course, he’s not calling himself _good_ after one impromptu lesson, but still... Maybe Viktor Nikiforov isn’t a one-trick pony after all.

He figures he should get up, make sure he has everything he needs for the competition packed, but he really doesn’t want to. He could look at this scene forever—which is, now that he considers it, a little creepy, especially if Yuuri wakes up and catches him staring. Yuuri is hard to read. Viktor’s relatively sure that—somehow—Yuuri likes him to some degree, but enough to be okay with Viktor staring at him in his sleep? He doubts that. In the end, it’s that thought that convinces him to get up and go into his bedroom to check his luggage.

The rolling case that contains his skates and accessories is perfectly packed, like it always is. He could get that one ready to go with his eyes closed and hands tied behind his back, it’s so routine at this point in his career.

He tries to summon the exhilaration he knows he’d felt at his very first time qualifying for worlds, but it doesn’t come. Now, it’s just another part of his life, not anything new or exciting.

 _Just one more year,_ he thinks, grimacing. Despite everything that’s happened, finding Yuuri and his music again, he still feels ambivalent at best about skating, a sort of glumness filling him whenever he thinks about it.

He’ll wait as long as he has to for Yuuri’s music, because he isn’t sure he can put up with another year feeling like this—or _not_ feeling, more accurately. He _wants_ to love his sport again.

When he moves onto the bag containing his casual clothes and other items, he finds a few things he missed—he always, _always_ manages to overlook something. Careful not to make too much noise, he adds the missing items to his bag and closes it back up, resigning himself to having to pick up whatever he’s still forgetting at a convenience store in Boston.

He double checks his ticket and boarding information on his phone, and with that, he’s ready to go. It’s still almost half an hour before Yakov will send the cab to pick him up, though. Still careful to be quiet, Viktor moves his bags to a spot beside the front door, and, unable to resist, takes a long look at the couch.

Yuuri’s shifted in his sleep, and now he’s lying on his back, the armrest serving as his pillow, and Makkachin is draped across his legs and torso, her head resting on his chest, pink tongue poking out of her mouth. She opens her eyes and wags her tail lazily when she sees him approach, but doesn’t make a move to get up. After just another second, her eyes slide shut again.

“I’m not sure which of you I’m more jealous of,” he murmurs almost inaudibly. It’s probably crossing another line but... Well, Yuuri doesn’t have to know, Viktor thinks as he slips his phone out of his pocket and snaps a picture of the two.

He immediately sends it to Chris, along with the caption, _‘I think she likes him better than me. Can’t blame her.’_

He gets a reply almost immediately. ‘ _Oh no,’_ it says, _‘Oh no, that’s almost too cute. This is your Yuuri, right?’_

‘ _Yes._ _And_ y _ou’re telling me,’_ Viktor types in reply, _‘It’s even better/worse in person.’_

‘ _That’s your apartment, right? So you finally asked him out? Good for you,’_ Chris texts.

Viktor sighs, ignoring for the moment that _Chris_ had been the one to remind him that he _shouldn’t_ ask Yuuri out while he was paying him. Instead he says, _‘No... he’s just watching Makka while I’m out of town.’_

‘ _Bummer_ ,’ he receives, again, almost immediately. The second reply, when it comes a few moments later, says, ‘ _You DID said he’s single, right? Because seriously—if you’re not going to make a move on this guy, I’ll gladly take one for the team. He’s cute as hell.’_

He snorts softly, not feeling remotely threatened—Chris talks a big game, but Viktor knows him well enough to be certain that Yuuri isn’t his type. He doesn’t, however, want to explain that he’s been getting so many mixed signals that he has _no idea_ if Yuuri is even into _him_ at all.

‘ _Don’t you have a boyfriend?’_ Viktor sends, directing the conversation away from himself.

‘ _Johann’s cool with it,’_ Chris writes back, and it’s followed a second later by a photo of a handsome brown-haired man giving a thumbs-up, captioned, _‘See?’_

Viktor rolls his eyes at this, and just texts back, _‘Whatever you say. See you in Boston tomorrow.’_

‘ _Going to kick your ass this time. Time to dethrone the king,’_ the reply says, when it comes a few minutes later.

Honestly, even that isn’t enough to get him fired up, but he does grin slightly as he answers, _‘We’ll see about that.’_

With that, he locks the phone and slips it back into his pocket, looking up at Yuuri and Makkachin and again indulging in the idea of slipping onto the couch with them, going to sleep with them instead of flying halfway around the world for a competition he barely cares about. He’s still not sure how to deal with the newness of just wanting to hold and to be held, no sexual component to his desire at all—well, not an urgent one, at least.

Still, Viktor has to grimace at what must be a cruel joke being played on him—that he’s finally feeling something again, and it’s all tied up in want for something—someone—he can’t have. Not now at least. And maybe not ever.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Viktor is good at hiding his thoughts, at controlling his feelings, presenting himself as upbeat, cheerful, and about as deep as a puddle. So much of his life has been on camera, he’s had to learn how to do this at a moment’s notice—it’s more of a survival skill than anything else.

And he puts it to good use, now. When he opens his eyes again, he’s calm, the aching want in his chest obscured behind a veil of numbness. Still, he can’t bring himself to just walk out, so he retrieves a blanket from the bedroom closet, and gently covers both Yuuri and Makkachin with it, careful to leave her head free. He dithers for a moment, seeing the glasses still perched on Yuuri’s nose. He wouldn’t want him to roll over and break them... Finally, he goes ahead and gently takes hold of the sides, sliding them off of Yuuri’s face, then folding them and placing them on the coffee table. His nose wrinkles briefly, but he doesn’t stir otherwise.

“Goodnight,” Viktor breathes, and turns around. It’s about time for his cab to arrive—he should get downstairs.

Very carefully, very quietly, he moves his bags to the front porch and closes the door behind him, locking it. There, he stands for a long moment, eyes focused on nothing in particular. It’s only when he sees the headlights of a car pulling up to the curb that he manages to shoulder his bag, take the handle of the rolling case, and descend the stairs to the street.

He’ll fly to Boston a few hours later, and three days after that, he’ll skate his free program. _Stammi Vicino—Stay close to me, and never let me go._ It’ll be the first time that the song really means anything to him on a personal level, and all the articles on the competition will comment on how much more passionate Viktor seems in this performance.

He’ll break his own world record—again.

And still, he won’t feel anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading and your feedback! It means a ton to me.
> 
> I had a couple of people express interest in the music I'm using as inspiration for Yuuri's compositions, so I'm going to be adding that info to the chapter end notes from here on in if that's alright. The piano piece Yuuri plays in this chapter probably sounds a lot like [Nuvole Bianche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcihcYEOeic) by Ludovico Einaudi.
> 
> A bit late, but the piece he composed to Viktor's 2012 program was drawn heavily from [Tunglið](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ZOPoCTa--o) by Ólafur Arnalds.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was out of town all day yesterday and my beta is on vacation, so this one's a day late again; I apologize.

_**(Early April, 2016)** _

Yuuri sinks his fingers into the warm fur on Makkachin’s head, his other hand still on the keys of his laptop. She sighs softly in her doze, and subtly presses into the touch. Finally bringing himself to look away from the screen and its vexingly incomplete composition, he looks down at her instead, stretched out across the couch with her head pillowed against his hip.

It’s mid-afternoon, three days since Viktor left for Boston, and despite his various anxieties, he’s started to settle into staying here and taking care of Makkachin, who has been an absolute delight. He hadn’t fully realized how much he'd missed having a dog of his own, and specifically how much he missed _his_ dog, before getting to spend so much time with Makkachin.

And beyond that, he’s really beginning to get comfortable in Viktor’s home. The commute to school is a bit of a pain, but he enjoys being here in this sleek, upscale apartment. He’s never lived anywhere this nice.

He’d given up on sleeping on the couch the second night—Viktor had been right; the couch really _is_ much more fashionable than functional. Makkachin loves to cuddle—and there’s really not room on the couch for both of them to sleep comfortably. Viktor _had_ said it was alright, so in the middle of the night, he’d gotten up and moved. Once he’d gotten over the embarrassment that comes with sleeping in the bed of someone he’s _very_ attracted to, he’d found that it’s an almost offensively comfortable mattress. He’s going to hate having to go back to the cheap hard one in his own apartment.

Yuuri checks the time on his laptop, and quickly calculates the time difference in his head—Viktor will probably be waking up soon, if he hasn’t already, to begin preparations for his competition. It’s the day of the men’s short program.

With that thought in mind, he grabs his phone, and opens the camera app.

“Makka,” he calls, and she perks up instantly. “Wish your dad good luck.” With that, he turns the camera on her. She doesn’t make a noise, but she does tilt her head slightly to the side and wag her tail once which—Yuuri thinks as he snaps the picture—besides being _adorable,_ will convey the sentiment well enough.

“Good girl,” he says, and ruffles her ears before turning his attention to the phone. Yuuri opens up his messages and attaches the picture. He captions it _‘Makkachin’s wishing you good luck at your competition today.’_

He looks at the photo again—it’s actually a great picture of her, as far as unplanned snapshots go. He worries at his lower lip for a second, but goes ahead and opens up his Instagram app—Phichit had made him install it months ago in yet another attempt to get him more ‘hip’ with the social media, but he doesn’t take a lot of photos, so he’d never so much as thought about it since then—well, not before today.

Luckily, he remembers his login, and he hasn’t changed his password for the past five years, so it only takes him seconds to access his account. It’s intuitive enough, and within another minute, he’s made his first post since 2011.

Unsurprisingly, Phichit is the first person to notice, and his comment makes Yuuri grin and roll his eyes.

 

 

 

([image source](http://www.poodleforum.com/3-poodle-pictures/180970-clifford-has-head-tilt-ninja-poodle-down-fine-art.html))

[Image description: Instagram screenshot posted by user katsudon-yuuri, showing a poodle looking at the camera, head tilted. Instagram user phichit-piano has liked the photo, as well as commented: "if i'd known a cute dog was all it took to get you to actually use insta..."]

 

Shaking his head, Yuuri locks his phone and puts it back away in his pocket, but almost the moment he does, it vibrates again. When he pulls it back out, there’s a text from Viktor, reading, _‘Aww, <3\. Give her a kiss for me.’_

Yuuri opens the field to reply, but another text pops up on his screen as he does. _‘What about you? Any good luck wishes from Yuuri?’_

Yuuri worries at his lower lip, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. Even when he’s obviously joking, like now, it’s hard to deal with Viktor’s texting habits—he’s sure it’s completely incidental, but so many of them come off as flirty. Yuuri’s certain he’s just projecting; tone is so hard to convey over text. Still...

‘ _I thought that went without saying,’_ he finally replies. A second later, he types, ‘ _But good luck, anyway,’_ and sends that, too.

Viktor does reply, a few moments later, with another unaccompanied ‘heart’ emoji, and Yuuri has to set his phone and laptop down, covers the sudden blush by leaning over to bury his face in Makkachin’s fur, his glasses going all askew as she wiggles to find the best way to contort herself so she can lick his face.

Yuuri giggles, and indulges her for a few seconds before pushing himself back up into a sitting position. She tries to follow him up, but she goes still when he asks, “Do you want to go outside?” He’s been beating his head against the wall that is his unfinished project for hours, ever since he got back from his morning lecture, and he could use a break. A run with Makkachin sounds _perfect._

Quivering with excitement, she whines and paws at his leg. Yuuri smiles, and says, “Okay, we’ll go in just a minute. Go get your ball.”

In a flash, she jumps down from the couch and sprints to the basket of dog toys. Yuuri watches her pick up and discard several rubber balls—they look identical to him, but clearly not so much to Makkachin. While she decides, he goes through the bedroom and into the bathroom, rinsing the dog slobber off his face in the sink.

There’s an elegantly sculpted glass bottle on the counter that’s been catching Yuuri’s eye every time he’s come in here, and it does again now, as he pats his face dry with a towel and slips his glasses back on. He’s resisted the impulse til now because it seems a little invasive, but... what the hell; Viktor will never know. Carefully, he slips the glass stopper from the top of the bottle and takes a whiff.

It’s spicy, musky, fresh like sandalwood and cedar, and it’s _definitely_ the intoxicating cologne Viktor’s worn almost every time he’s been around him. As he replaces the stopper, however, he can’t help but think, with a touch of chagrin, that it smells better _on_ Viktor.

By the time Yuuri comes back into the main room, Makkachin is standing by the front door, marching her feet excitedly, the chosen ball held in her mouth.

Yuuri had been really nervous, at first, about taking Makkachin outside. He’s never seen Viktor have her on a leash, and he’d been really concerned she might run off. But so far at least, she hasn’t gone more than about a meter from his side on any of their walks, and he’s started to lose some of his anxiety.

As soon as the door is open, Makkachin pushes through, dancing with anticipation as Yuuri also steps out and locks it behind him.

“Give me the ball,” he says, and she obediently places it in his hand—he’ll hold onto it for now; it’s not good for her to hold it while they run. That done, he heads down the stairs, Makkachin close by his side, and he breaks into an easy jog, taking it slow for now. Until recently, it’s been so cold that Yuuri hasn’t wanted to be outside any more than he’s absolutely had to be, so he’s been neglecting his daily run for a while, and he’s a little out of shape.

Despite that, he finds a rhythm and settles into it, enjoying the way his mind clears as his feet hit the pavement almost hypnotically. There’s a city park just past the ice rink Viktor practices at, and he heads there, Makkachin keeping pace with him stride for stride.

They pass the ice rink, and then the gate to the park. There, Yuuri slows to a stop beside a water fountain—there’s a foot-operated pedal and a spout close to the ground for dogs, and he presses that to let Makkachin drink before leaning over to take a few swallows from the human-sized one himself.

The two of them walk a little further into the park, and Yuuri’s breathing and heart-rate even back out as he finds a good spot to throw the ball for Makkachin—there are a lot of people there, this afternoon, and it’s not easy to find an unoccupied open space. He can’t blame them, he thinks as he finds a nice spot. It’s really a beautiful afternoon, and St. Petersburg is gorgeous when it’s not too cold out to appreciate it properly.

The sun begins its descent toward the western horizon as they play, Yuuri throwing the ball, Makkachin sprinting to catch it before it lands. She likes to make him chase her to get the ball back for another throw, tail wagging wildly, and Yuuri indulges her, her enthusiasm rubbing off on him.

After a while, he takes a break, settling on a park bench, and Makkachin flops down on top of his feet, panting but to all appearances a very happy dog. Everything around them is taking on the golden glow that late afternoon brings. The dramatic clouds the wind off the Baltic Sea had spent the day sculpting into fantastical shapes are beginning to break up, the sun piercing through them in rays of light that look almost tangible.

It’s a breathtaking scene, really. Yuuri’s mind, as it has been in idle moments recently, turns back to his piece, and the missing... _something._ He thinks that if he could encapsulate the feeling evoked by this sweeping, grand skyscape in his music that would fill in the gap, really complete it. But how would he do that? It’s one thing to want to capture a sensation in sound, and another thing to know how to do it.

But suddenly—he sits ramrod straight, struck with inspiration—Yuuri _does_ know exactly how to do it.

He gets up, a second wave of frenetic energy buzzing in his veins; he’s ready to _sprint_ back to Viktor’s apartment and his laptop, so he can write the final part—god, it had been so obvious, how hadn’t he thought of this before? Before he goes, though, he unlocks his cell phone, and writes a text:

‘ _Leo, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to need your help with my project after all.’_

 

-

 

Winning didn’t always feel like this, Viktor thinks as he unloads his bags from the trunk of the cab. Once, success had been thrilling, had made him want to push even harder and do even better. Now, it’s almost like he’s been anesthetized. There’s just...no feeling there, anymore. He’s at the top of his game, the top of _the_ game, and he can’t summon up even a whisper of emotion about it.

He doesn’t know why it’s like this, why _he’s_ like this, but he does know that he’s tired, drained physically and emotionally, and he’s ready to sleep for a full twelve hours.

When he gets up the stairs and steps through the door to his apartment, two things happen simultaneously: first, Makkachin yips with excitement and leaps down from the couch to greet him, nearly falling over herself in her haste.

The second is Yuuri, from the kitchen, saying, “Oh! Welcome back.”

And that’s all it takes for some of the ice in his chest to crack, soften, and melt, and a gentle smile creeps across Viktor’s face as he kneels down to pet his dog.

He has to hold her back from licking his face so he can reply, “I’m home.”

While he’s saying hello to Makkachin, he hears the sink in the kitchen turn off, and looks up to see Yuuri drying his hands with a dish towel as he hesitantly approaches.

Viktor wishes he could come home to this every day.

“Do you want any help with your bags?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor realizes that the front door is still standing wide open, with his skate bag and suitcase forgotten on the other side of the threshold.

“No, it’s alright,” Viktor says, forcing himself back up onto his feet. “I’ve got it.” He moves both to a spot just inside the door, then closes it.

“How was your trip?” Yuuri asks as Viktor straightens back up, placing his hands on his hips and trying to stretch the kinks out of his neck and shoulders.

“It was,” he begins, and catches himself. He’d been about to give his ‘it was great’ stock answer, like he would to an interviewer or reporter, complete with fake smile, but this is Yuuri—he doesn’t have to do that, now. “Exhausting,” he finishes, after a second.

Yuuri laughs softly, and says, “I think I could have guessed that.”

Viktor does smile then, but it’s a soft, genuine one—he loves the sound of Yuuri’s laugh.

“How was Makkachin?” he asks, giving up on getting his neck to pop and turning the rest of the way to face them both.

Yuuri grins too, reaching down to tousle her ears where she’s standing next to him. “She’s been wonderful.” Makkachin, seeming to understand that they’re talking about her, wags her tail and lets her tongue loll out of her mouth in a broad doggy smile.

“Thanks for looking after her for me—I owe you.” He means it metaphorically, but it does remind him… Viktor pats his pocket, and realizes that the only cash he’s carrying are a few stray US dollar bills, and he’s too tired to figure out an electronic transfer right now. “Okay, I don’t have any cash right now, but don’t let me forget to pay you for this.”

Yuuri looks like he wants to roll his eyes, and says, “You _really_ don’t have to—I wanted to help. And I think the only thing you _need_ to do is go to bed.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to laugh, for a couple of different reasons. Because Yuuri’s right, of course. He’d barely gotten any sleep the night before, and it’s past midnight here. And also because there’s a small part of him that’s honestly _delighted_ that Yuuri is willing to call him out, that he’s growing comfortable enough with Viktor to do so. He can’t imagine the reticent, stammering Yuuri he’d first met a few months ago doing anything like this.

After a second, he moves to the couch, sitting down heavily, and says, “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but you didn’t have to wait for me to get home,” Viktor says.

Yuuri shrugs, and _there’s_ the shyness coming back. “I was worried your flight might get delayed, and didn’t want Makkachin to be on her own.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, blinking his gritty eyes, “I didn’t think about that—thank you.”

Makkachin trots over to him and stands between his knees, leaning her head forward to ask to be scratched, and Viktor willingly obliges, stroking her chin and throat idly.

“Also,” Yuuri goes on after a second, his voice soft and hesitant enough to make Viktor look up again, curious as to what he’s going to say. “I have something I wanted to ask you, now that you’re back... a favor, sort of?”

“Of course, anything,” Viktor says immediately.

Yuuri’s color deepens at the reply, but he takes a visible breath, and continues. “I finished writing your music.”

Despite his exhaustion, the heaviness in his limbs, and the residual numbness from the competition, there’s a bubble of excitement at those words, and he leans forward.

Yuuri goes on, “I’m going to finish the recording this week, and... I was told it’s good luck to have the commissioner present for at least one of the sessions. I don’t know if that’s true, but...” he pauses, shrugs, and looks at the floor, finally saying, “I do think I’d like to have you there to record the last part.”

“Yes, of course, absolutely,” Viktor says, all in a rush. “When is it?”

Yuuri, looking relieved at his easy agreement, says, “About a week, probably? I just got Leo the part earlier today, so I want to give him a few days to practice.”

“Perfect,” Viktor says, grinning again. His mood has done almost a complete 180 since arriving home.

Yuuri smiles back, and says, “Alright. I’ll text you the details but… thank you. Now I think I should go home and let you rest.”

Viktor blinks; he’s tired, he’s _so_ tired, but he doesn’t want Yuuri to go yet, not when he’s barely gotten to see him. Still, it _is_ after midnight. Which... shit, it’s after midnight.

“Yuuri, the buses stopped running an hour ago,” Viktor replies.

“I know,” Yuuri shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I can call a cab.”

“Or you can stay here,” Viktor says, pragmatically—he takes enough cabs to know they aren’t cheap, but also... His mind once again supplies him with an impression of how it might feel to drift off to sleep with Yuuri in his arms—it’s not going to happen, certainly not tonight, but he can’t stop imagining it.

“I don’t-I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Yuuri insists.

“It’ll be more inconvenient if I have to stay up worrying about whether you made it home alright or not,” Viktor says, punctuating it with a smile so Yuuri knows he’s not being serious. That _is_ part of the reason he wants him to stay, but the bigger part is to see what he looks like in the morning, to sit across from him and have coffee, to cook breakfast with him, to walk Makkachin together. It’s all disgustingly domestic, but he wants that. Wants it so much that it hurts, that it scares him a little.

“I guess... If you don’t mind,” Yuuri says.

“I don’t,” Viktor says, and magnanimously offers, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You will not,” Yuuri replies exasperatedly, looking like he wants to roll his eyes again.

Viktor breathes out a half-laugh again at Yuuri’s assertive side, and holds his hands up in acquiescence. Truth be told, he’s been wanting his own bed since the very first night at the hotel in Boston. Once upon a time, traveling all over the world for competitions had been exciting, an adventure, but now he’s just tired of it. Either way, he’s not going to fight Yuuri on this.

He’s almost delirious enough with tiredness to suggest that they _both_ sleep in his bed—it’s certainly big enough—but, again, that’s a line he’s not willing to cross, not before he’s _certain_ of where he stands with Yuuri.

“Okay,” he says, finally, and stands, saying, “I’d love to keep talking to you, but I’m really...” he trails off, unable to summon up the phrase he’s looking for.

Yuuri finishes for him, “Dead on your feet?”

Viktor half-laughs again, and says, “Yes, exactly.”

“Then please don’t let me keep you from getting some sleep.”

“Alright,” Viktor says softly, “Thank you again for...” he gestures to Makkachin. “It really was a relief, knowing she had someone taking good care of her.”

“It was my pleasure,” Yuuri says, blushing faintly, and reaching out to pat her. Still looking at the dog, he speaks again, his voice soft. “Good night, Viktor.”

“Good night, Yuuri,” he replies in the same quiet, intimate tone, and turns, taking the few steps to his bedroom, Makkachin following and jumping up onto the bed ahead of him. Viktor shuts the door behind him and immediately begins shedding his clothes, letting them stay wherever they fall. He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

It seems like only minutes pass, but when he opens his eyes again, the sun is high in the sky, and Makkachin is the only one waiting for him when he pokes his head out of his room—Yuuri must have let her out earlier. There is a note, carefully folded and stuck under her collar.

Viktor smiles at that. _Cute._ He opens it up, and there are a few lines written in Yuuri’s careful hand.

_Viktor,_

_Thank you for letting me stay last night. I took Makkachin for a walk and fed her breakfast so you wouldn’t have to worry about it. Sorry I didn’t stay to say goodbye, but I need to get some practice in before class. Muffin for you on the counter._

_-YK_

His stomach gives a rumble at the mention of the muffin, and sure enough, there is a paper bag on the kitchen counter, bearing the logo of the little shop down the street. It’s such a small gesture, but there’s still a flutter in Viktor’s chest. He really hasn’t ever felt like this about someone before. Of course, there’s really no one quite like Yuuri.

‘ _Thanks for breakfast and for walking Makka <3,’ _he texts Yuuri, wanting to say more than that.

He picks up the bag on the way to the coffeemaker, opening it up to peer inside—it’s strawberry. His favorite. He wonders how Yuuri had known—or, like his getting the katsudon before his trip, if it had just been a lucky guess.

Either way, it’s delicious, more so because it’s from Yuuri, and he takes small bites while his coffee brews, wondering what to do with himself for the rest of the day. He looks at the clock and grins joylessly—normally, he’d have almost missed morning practice if he’d just been waking up now.

But as of today, it’s officially the off-season, which means that for the next month and a half, he only has mandatory practice three days a week, in addition to his normal conditioning and gym time.

He’s never sure what to do with all this free time. Any other year, he might have started working on his next program. But now... he’s not motivated. It’s going to be his last year of competitive figure skating, and he should be working harder than ever to make sure his career ends on a high note, but there’s just nothing there in that place where he should care.

He’ll be getting his music as early as next week, though. Once again, a fire of anticipation burns through the apathy at that thought. Yuuri’s music, written for him. He can hardly wait to hear it.

But he’s still not sure what to do with his time until then. Bitterly, he thinks that this time next year, after his final world championship competition, this will be all he has. He’d better spend the next year figuring out what he wants to do if he’s not skating, because when he thinks of it now, there’s just a void. Skating has been the center of his existence for almost his entire life.

There’s a thrill of relief at the idea of leaving it behind, and an equally strong thrill of fear of the unknown.

So he does what he always does when his thoughts circle something unpleasant. He pushes it away and smiles, and as he pours his cup of coffee, he hates that he’s gotten so good at faking it that he can even fool himself, a little bit.

Viktor sighs, and goes to get his tablet, opening up his social media feed while his coffee cools to a reasonable temperature. It’s the first time he’s looked at it in a few days, and he’s absolutely charmed to see that Yuuri posted the picture of Makkachin to Instagram that he’d sent him the day of his short program. The first time he’s shared in – Viktor snorts in amusement – five years. Though to be fair, it _is_ a very good picture of her. The comments are a mix of exclamations of surprise that he’s actually posted something, comments on how cute she is, and one that says, _‘That looks like Viktor Nikiforov’s dog???’_

Viktor himself hits ‘like’ on the photo, but doesn’t leave a comment of his own. He looks over to see what Makkachin is doing now.

“Aww,” he says sadly when he finds her. She’s lying flat on the floor, back legs out behind her like a rug, her nose pressed against the front door. She looks up at the sound of his voice, wags her tail briefly, but then goes right back to her vigil.

Viktor quickly takes his phone out and snaps a picture of his own, and uploads it to his instagram account, too.

 

 

([image source](http://www.allpoodleinfo.com/red-poodles))

[Image description: Instagram screenshot of a post by user v-nikiforov, showing a photo of a poodle lying on a floor, looking somewhat sad. It is captioned, "missing her new favorite person..." and has 11 likes]

Coffee abandoned, he gets up and goes over to her, sitting on the ground by the door and leaning his back against it. Makkachin moves her head from the floor to his knee, looking dolefully up at him.

“You’re waiting for him to come back, right?” he says softly, and her tail wags once in response. Viktor half-smiles a little sadly, and says, “I wish he would, too.”

He sits like that for a long time, petting her, but eventually gets back up. Off season or not, he’s got to keep in shape, and Yakov won’t be happy if he takes an unscheduled day off just because he doesn’t feel like doing much of anything.

So he gets dressed, goes for a jog with Makkachin, is gracious when he’s stopped on the street by a couple of fans. The next day, he does it again. And again, and again, sinking into a fugue of routine. He eats, he practices, he goes to the gym, he sleeps. It’s comfortably familiar, it’s disappointingly stagnant.

Until the end of the week, when he gets a text from Yuuri.

‘ _If you’re free, we were going to record the last part of the piece this afternoon. Sorry for the short notice...’_ and for the first time in days, he feels engaged in the present moment.

‘ _Yes, absolutely!’_ he writes back. ‘ _Just say when/where and I’ll be there.’_

Yuuri texts him again a few minutes later with an address and a time later that afternoon, and Viktor googles the address to find that it’s an old structure, built in the 1800s, once a theater but currently a performance space owned by the conservatory, though it seems to be used pretty infrequently. He’s intrigued by this. Viktor loves music, but he knows almost nothing about the processes involved in making it, and, as such, doesn’t have a clue what to expect. He had run into Yuuri recording on the beach last month, but he guesses that was something of an unusual circumstance.

Still, he has hours to kill before it’s time for him to go, so he takes Makkachin for a walk, then heads down to the rink for a while. Yakov’s there, of course. Viktor’s been under his tutelage for close to a decade, and he’s yet to see any evidence that Yakov doesn’t _live_ there, but he’s not the only one. The rink holds a lot more public sessions during the figure skating off-season, and that’s what seems to be going on now.

When he spots Viktor, Yakov gruffly waves him over. There’s a good third of the rink blocked off with cones, and in that area he sees Yuri, already working on perfecting his quads. That’s right, he thinks—this will be his first year in the senior division, so he’ll be allowed to do them in competition now. He wonders, without much enthusiasm, how it will be to compete against his young rink-mate in his last season.

However, it’s the rest of the ice that captures Viktor’s attention while he trades his running shoes out for his skates. Families, mothers holding the hands of young children and keeping them steady. There are adults who clearly don’t know what they’re doing, wobbling and clinging to the wall, but laughing with friends. Couples, holding hands as they skate lazy laps around the truncated rink.

He thinks it might be nice to do that with Yuuri, to skate hand-in-hand with him, just for the fun of it and without the pressure of performance, of being judged. He wonders if Yuuri would like that. He wonders if Yuuri even knows _how_ to skate. He thinks he’d like to teach him, if not.

He finished lacing up his skates, slips on his guards, stows his bag under a nearby bench, and goes to stand beside Yakov. They both watch Yuri in silence for a moment—he’s working out the kinks in his quadruple salchow. As Viktor looks on, he sees him push off the ice, his form perfect—but he under-rotates and steps out, stumbling, but he doesn’t go down. Still, it’s impressive. There aren’t a lot of fifteen-year-olds who could pull that off.

“Have you thought about your program for next season?” Yakov asks him, in lieu of a greeting, and without looking away from Yuri’s performance.

“Thought about it, sure,” Viktor answers. “Not going to yell at him for that?”

“He knows what he did wrong—look, he’s already corrected it,” Yakov says, and they both look on as Yuri tries the jump again, and this time it’s almost flawless, except for a wobble as he lands. “He’s going to be a monster, when he learns to control himself.”

Viktor makes a noise of neutral agreement.

After another second, Yakov asks, “So you’ve _thought_ about the program; anything concrete?”

“I need to get my music before I can get started choreographing,” Viktor reminds him.

Yakov grumbles, and says, “Well, your musician _friend_ is certainly taking his time.”

Defensive on Yuuri’s behalf, Viktor grins sharply and says, “You can’t rush perfection.”

Yakov snorts at that, the closest he ever comes to laughing, but he doesn’t protest. “You know,” he says, “You’re going to have to announce it soon. Your retirement. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

He does look at Viktor, then, and Viktor almost feels bad for dashing the spark of hope he sees in the old man’s face. “I haven’t,” he says. “And I will, soon. I just want to avoid that spotlight for as long as I can.”

“It’s not like you, to lay low instead of sticking your nose in the juiciest drama you can find—or make.”

Viktor’s smile doesn’t fade, but it goes forced, a bitter curl to his lips. “I guess I’m getting old, just like you.”

Yakov rolls his eyes, and says, “Are you going to get on the ice or did you just come here to make my life miserable, Vitya?”

Now, the expression on his face shifts, becoming a little more genuine. “Well, I had _planned_ on skating, but now that you mention it...”

“Get out there,” Yakov says, gesturing roughly to the gate. Viktor shoots him a cheeky look, but obeys, taking off his guards and stepping out onto the ice. He skates a few quick loops around the blocked-off section to warm up. He nods a greeting at Yuri, who shoots him an inordinately hostile look in return.

It’s easy to tune him out, to tune out the stares of the people on the other side of the rink, many of whom have paused in their own skating to watch as he works. He begins his practice in earnest with a triple toe loop, and there’s a smattering of applause, and he automatically shoots a crowd-pleasing smile at the people, but he hardly hears it, focused on the movements of his own body, on the way his blades cut patterns into the ice. This is how he works best, alone, recognizing and correcting his own mistakes as he makes them.

It’s very methodical, analytical, something he does by rote rather than with any real passion. Still, he’s got to keep his skills sharp, so he works until his legs begin to ache, his lungs burning. Coming out of his hyperfocused, near-trance state, he skates back to the gate and steps onto the mat. Yakov is speaking with Yuri in low tones, sparing Viktor his criticisms for now, so he slips on his blade guards and takes a seat on the bench, drinking deeply from his water bottle.

While he catches his breath, he checks his phone—no new messages, but the clock shows that he should go back to his apartment and shower soon, so he can meet Yuuri on time.

“Yakov,” Viktor calls when he sees that Yuri and his coach are done talking, “I need to take off. You have any pearls of wisdom for me before I go?”

“Yeah,” Yakov says, taking a few steps toward him. “At least _try_ to look like you’re enjoying yourself out there?”

Viktor blinks, not having been expecting that. Suddenly, he wonders if Yakov knows how much he’s been faking it these past years—but no. Certainly he would have said something. Yakov’s never been shy about that kind of thing.

He fishes for an excuse, but again, no, Yakov isn’t shy about letting his students know what he thinks of bullshit excuses, so Viktor just puts on a chagrined smile and says, “Duly noted.”

Yakov shoots him a look, but doesn’t press him further, so Viktor begins unlacing his skates, slipping them off and thoroughly drying the blades before stowing them in away in his bag and changing back into his running shoes.

Once everything’s packed away neatly, he waves to Yakov and Yuri and makes his way toward the front doors, excitement and anticipation beginning to flutter in his stomach.

He can hardly wait to get a preview of his music—and to see Yuuri again.

-

 

“How did you want it, again?” Leo calls from the front of the performance hall.

“All stops out... or, as many as it will sound good with; you’re the expert,” Yuuri answers, not looking up from the mess of wires he’s trying to sort out.

“That’s what I thought,” Leo replies with a laugh.

Yuuri doesn’t reply, but he’s grinning as he untangles the extension cord. This is it, the last part left to record. He’ll need a few days to finish mixing and adding any electronics, but he can see the finish line. And for the first time in his musical career, he couldn’t be happier with how his work is turning out _._

Finally, the last knot in the cord comes untangled, and Yuuri takes the plug over to the front corner of the hall; the building is from the early 1800s, and hasn’t been updated particularly well—there’s a major dearth of electrical outlets.

But he’s spent the whole day going back and forth between the conservatory and here, and he’s got everything he needs— _finally—_ and they’ll be ready to go any minute.

Returning to his spot in the approximate center of the hall, Yuuri finishes setting up his equipment: laptop, headphones, and of course, the best mic he could get his hands on.

“Let’s check how it sounds,” Yuuri calls. Leo, who has been playing quiet idle notes while Yuuri got everything ready, nods. He expertly pulls on a series of knobs and flips a few switches.

“That should do it,” he replies, “Just tell me when.”

Yuuri hovers his finger over _record,_ and says, “Just the first few chords, to check. Go ahead... now,” and presses the button. As he does, Leo begins to play the opening notes to his part, and the whole space fills with sound.

Yuuri grins again, almost forgetting to stop the recording as the notes fade away, reverberating around the empty hall. Yeah, a pipe organ had been _exactly_ what the piece had needed.

Snapping out of it, Yuuri slips on his headphones and opens the recording to check the input levels—they’re perfect.

“Sounds great!” Yuuri says, sliding the headphones off to hang around his neck. “We’re ready to go.”

“As soon as your guest of honor arrives,” Leo says, and even from over ten meters back, Yuuri can see the knowing smile on his face, and he just shakes his head in reply—but he can feel that he’s blushing a little, too.

He _will_ be ready to record… as soon as Viktor gets here.

There’s another flutter of nerves at that thought, and as if summoned by that, Yuuri’s phone vibrates in his pocket a second later.

His hands shake slightly as he opens the message—it’s a picture, showing the building from the street, captioned, _‘Is this the right place?’_

‘ _Yes!’_ Yuuri types back, grateful for autocorrect as his hands begin shaking a little harder. _‘The door is unlocked, please come in,_ ’ he finishes, and hits send. Immediately, the flutter of butterflies in his stomach becomes a full-blown hoard, and he quickly runs his fingers through his hair and brushes himself off. He’s a little disheveled from running around all day, and even though he knows it’s hopeless, that his crush isn’t going to go anywhere, he still wants to look nice for Viktor.

Yuuri bites his lip as he turns toward the door. He’s not sure why it matters so much that Viktor is here for this session in particular—certainly, Yuuri’s spent the whole _week_ frantically getting all the other parts recorded, and he might have invited him to any of those instead.

But this one’s special. Maybe it’s because it was the missing puzzle piece, or maybe it’s because it’s the last one, but Yuuri really wants Viktor present for this.

And as soon as he thinks that, the door creaks open, and Viktor slips into the hall. Yuuri watches his head go straight up to the vaulted ceiling—the same way his own had, when he’d seen this performance space for the first time.

It’s a beautiful building, and it’s a shame it’s used so little, Yuuri thinks. It was originally built as a theater, but there’s something about it that’s more like a cathedral, in his opinion. Maybe it’s the high ceiling, maybe it’s the tall windows with their intricate patterns of crystal and gold-stained glass. Maybe it’s the hush that envelops the grandiose structure. Afternoon sunlight slants through the windows, burnished warm-toned by the glass, illuminating every speck of dust in the old building, but somehow that just adds to the effect.

After a second, Viktor finds him, and Yuuri sees a smile break out over his face as he waves and makes his way over. Yuuri can’t help grinning back as he returns the wave.

“Hi,” Viktor says once he’s reached Yuuri—and of course, he looks absolutely perfect in dark pants and a deep red v-neck.

“Hi,” Yuuri replies, wishing he’d worn something other than a plain black shirt and his most comfortable jeans.

“This place is really something,” Viktor says, after a moment of just looking at Yuuri—probably waiting on him to say something more intelligent than just ‘ _hi.’_ His eyes sweep to the ceiling again. “Have you done all your recording here?”

“No, just this part,” Yuuri answers, and looks over his shoulder to the organ, and Leo, who’s gotten up and is making his way toward them, too.

Viktor notices him about the same time Yuuri does, and Yuuri thinks he can see the smile on his face effortlessly morph from genuine to professional—but he might be reading too much into the subtle shift.

“This is my friend, Leo de la Iglesia,” Yuuri says as Leo crosses the few remaining meters to where the equipment is set up.

“Hi, Mr. Nikiforov,” Leo says, and Yuuri’s a little pleased to see that it’s not _just_ him that was made a little starstruck, being face-to-face with the most decorated athlete in figure skating history, now fresh from winning his _fifth_ consecutive world championship.

“Just Viktor, please,” Viktor replies, tone friendly, and he extends an arm to shake hands with Leo. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Leo replies, still seeming a little dazzled.

“Leo’s going to play the pipe organ part,” Yuuri explains, and Viktor’s mouth forms a small _o_ of surprise.

“The pipe organ?” he repeats, looking between Yuuri and Leo, appearing puzzled, but not displeased.

“Mm-hm,” Yuuri agrees cryptically, and Leo just smiles and nods.

“I don’t think I’ve ever _heard_ one of those before, to be honest, but I can’t say I’m not excited,” Viktor says, and his face regains some of the warmth it had held when he’d first walked in.

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” Leo says with a nervous-sounding laugh, then turns to Yuuri and asks, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Yuuri answers, and Leo walks back toward the front of the hall. He shoots Viktor a nervous grin. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he replies, and Yuuri hides his blush by fiddling with the microphone’s controls.

When Leo’s settled in, he calls, “Ready when you are!”

Even as he does it, he’s not entirely sure why, but before Yuuri’s hand goes to the mic controls, he looks at Viktor. Viktor holds the gaze for a long moment, then, his brows drawing together in a determined grin, and he nods. Yuuri nods back, and hovers his finger over the ‘record’ button.

“Okay, Leo,” Yuuri says, “Recording in three...two...” Where he would have said ‘one,’ he instead begins the recording.

Leo waits a second, presumably to make sure everything is ready to go, then Yuuri sees his posture shift as he moves his feet to the pedals, and the first chord plays, saturating the performance hall with sound.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and instinctively holds it—he’s not worried that the mic will pick it up, but there’s something about this that makes him feel like even breathing will shatter it.

It adds to the cathedral-like atmosphere imparted by the hall’s architecture. Yuuri didn’t grow up in any sort of western religious tradition, of course, and he doesn’t think he believes in a higher power, but he’s been studying European music for so long that, even to him, the sound of a pipe organ is something majestic, something sacred, its rich sound meant for something truly spectacular.

He looks over, curious but anxious to see how Viktor feels about the piece. If Yuuri hadn’t already been holding his breath, he would have gasped at the expression he sees there. Viktor’s mouth is hanging slightly ajar, his eyes wide and sparkling with... wonder? That seems so dramatic, but it’s the only word Yuuri can think of that fits the look on his face.

Slowly, he lets out his held breath, and tears his eyes away, focusing on the input on his laptop, ensuring that nothing goes wrong with the recording.

But it goes off without a hitch, and when the final reverberations have died down, Yuuri stops the mic.

Immediately, Viktor bursts into applause, and Yuuri blushes even as he hears Leo laugh from the front of the hall, sounding a little self-conscious.

“That was—” Viktor begins his voice softer than a whisper, but if he finishes the sentence, it’s drowned out by Leo.

“How’d that sound?”

Yuuri looks at Viktor, hoping and scared that he might repeat what he’d said, or been about to say, but he just looks at Yuuri, something like awe still written on his face.

Turning back, Yuuri says to Leo, “I think it was good—nice playing, by the way. Let me double check the recording, though.”

“You got it, and thanks,” Leo replies, giving him a facetious salute.

With an apologetic glance at Viktor, Yuuri slips on his headphones, and plays back the recording he’d just made.

It doesn’t have _quite_ the same impact as the live version had—even the best microphone in the world loses _some_ of the resonance and depth of the original, but it sounds great nonetheless.

When he takes the headphones off, he sees that Leo’s come back over to join them, and Viktor seems to be nodding in response to something he’s saying, but they both go quiet and look expectantly toward Yuuri when they see him turn away from the screen.

“That was perfect, Leo—thank you again for your help with this.”

“First take? Wow,” Leo replies with a friendly chuckle.

“I didn’t get _any_ of the parts I recorded right on my first try,” Yuuri says, returning the laugh. He sobers, though, turning to Viktor. “So, um. What did you think?”

“I—” Viktor begins, but stops. Yuuri can see his mouth work as he tries to start over. Finally, he laughs softly, pushes his hair back from his face, and says, “Clearly, I don’t even have words to describe how impressed I am.”

“Oh,” Yuuri breathes, feeling a little like he’s floating.

“It was—amazing,” Viktor says finally, shaking his head. “You’re amazing,” he adds, his voice going softer, more intimate.

Yuuri looks down, then, and wonders if the gold-tinted light flooding the performance hall will hide the blush he feels rising in his face.

“I, um. Thank you,” he says lamely, a little overwhelmed at the praise. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and laughs a little nervously. “I—that didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would. I’m sorry for asking you to come all the way out here for just a few minutes.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Viktor assures him quickly.

“Still... well, that’s.” Yuuri grimaces as he trips over he words. “We’re pretty much done, here, except for the cleanup,” he finishes lamely.

Viktor looks like he’s hesitating, but after a few interminable seconds, he asks, “Are you doing anything after this? Will you let me take you out for dinner?”

Yuuri blinks, a little confused, unsure what he wants from Yuuri. To talk about the pieces? The season? Oh, gosh, was he just being nice, and he actually wants to change everything, or find a new composer, or he already _found_ a new composer, and he wants to break the news gently, or—

Yuuri, in his panic, waits too long to reply, so Viktor jumps in, a little less confidently, “I, well, I never properly thanked you for watching Makkachin on such short notice last week.”

Yuuri sighs in relief, glad to be back on certain footing. “It was really no trouble. And I...” he sighs, “I can’t.” Because he _can’t_ let Viktor buy him anything else, honestly. He still doesn’t feel great about all the money he’s spent on Yuuri already—the food, the cab rides— but instead, he says, “I need to get all this equipment back to the school tonight.”

“I’ll take care of it; you should go,” Leo volunteers, and both Yuuri and Viktor jump at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t know about Viktor, but Yuuri had _completely_ forgotten he was there.

“Leo, no,” Yuuri insists, recovering from his start. “You’ve already taken _more_ than enough time to help me.” He turns back to Viktor, and shrugs. “Sorry.”

Viktor’s smile goes a little strained, but he shrugs nonchalantly. “No problem; I understand. Some other time?”

Yuuri smiles, and his isn’t one hundred percent comfortable, either. “Sure—I think it’ll be another week or so before I’m done mixing? If that’s alright?”

Viktor swallows, and says, “That’s not what I m—” then he sighs slightly, and goes on, “That sounds great. Take as much time as you need.”

Yuuri smiles a little more warmly, and nods.

Viktor takes a step toward the door, clearly about to take his leave, and says, “Thanks for letting me be here for this.” He looks at Leo to include him in the statement. “It really was a pleasure.”

“Thanks,” Leo says softly, but Yuuri can only nod again, dumbly.

With an elegant wave, Viktor turns and heads back toward the hall’s front door, and Yuuri tried to pretend like he’s not watching him go.

The moment the door clicks shut, Leo rounds on him. “I can’t believe you just turned down a date with Viktor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri scoffs, and says, “It’s not like that.”

Leo actually _laughs,_ and says, “I promise you that it absolutely, one _thousand_ percent is _exactly_ like that. When you were talking—god, I felt like I needed to cover my eyes, or leave the room, or...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“That’s just how he is,” Yuuri says, but it comes out more weakly than he’d intended for it to.

“Sure, with _you,_ ” Leo insists. Yuuri can only shrug in reply to that—it’s hard enough not to get his hopes up _without_ his friends ‘helping.’

After a moment, Leo sighs, and says, “I don’t know how Phichit puts up with this every day.” He pauses, and gives Yuuri a look of confusion and disappointment. “Anyway, I guess we should get this equipment packed up and back to the conservatory, since that was important enough to _shoot down_ Viktor Nikiforov for.”

“It’s not like that,” Yuuri tells him again, and Leo doesn’t argue this time, just shakes his head again and goes to unplug the extension cord.

It’s really _not_ , no matter what his friends try to tell him. Yuuri’s certain of it.

There’s a part of him that wishes he was wrong, though. He doesn’t want to indulge it, knows that feeding it will just end in disappointment at best, heartbreak at worst. But it’s impossible to stomp out altogether.

With a sigh, Yuuri begins disassembling his equipment, firmly trying putting all thoughts of Viktor Nikiforov out of his mind.

(He doesn’t succeed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and to everyone who's taken the time to let me know what you think!! It means a lot.
> 
> The pipe organ scene drew a lot of inspiration from [the organ scene in August Rush](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpURq4N8MNs) (skip to about 2:00 in the vid. It's also on the spotify playlist lol).
> 
> I regret that I have to announce that we're approaching the end of the material that I had written prior to starting to post this. The next 2 or so chapters should be approximately on time, but I can't make any promises after that.  
> Personally, I prefer longer chapters even if the wait time is a little bit more, as opposed to more frequent shorter ones. Is that alright with y'all?


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving up on even trying to stick to a regular update schedule tbh. Sorry it's late.
> 
> Quick chapter warning for some boundaries being crossed in this chapter-- _not_ sexual, but still, might be something that stresses people out. Chapter spoilers/details in the end notes if you're concerned.

_**(Mid April, 2016)** _

 

Almost a week later, Viktor is a little embarrassed by the sulk he’d gone into after being rejected by Yuuri. He’d made it almost three days without leaving his apartment—except to walk Makkachin, of course. It had taken a personal visit from Yakov to snap him out of it, and really, Viktor’s just glad he’d been so focused on his tirade about how ‘just because it’s the off season and you’re retiring next year doesn’t mean you can slack off, Vitya, now go put on pants and get your ass to the rink,’ to notice the empty ice cream carton perched precariously on top of the trash can, because then it would have grown from a rant into a full-blown rage.

Now that he’s able to think more clearly about it, he can rationalize a lot of what happened. It hadn’t been the right time—truth be told, he hadn’t _intended_ to ask Yuuri out on a real date. He’d just gotten caught up in the moment, and it had been a mistake. Yuuri’s still under his employ, he’d been right in the middle of a project, it had been short notice, and his friend—who Viktor had managed to forget about—had been there. Of course Yuuri hadn’t wanted to, under those circumstances.

He wonders idly if he hadn’t been clear enough, if Yuuri hadn’t gathered exactly what Viktor had been asking—which, to be fair, he _had_ chickened out and said it was about Makkachin. But no, he isn’t sure he could have been much clearer.

Regardless, the seed of doubt is there, and Viktor knows he _has_ to try again, the literal second he’s paid Yuuri and there are no debts or obligations between them. He needs a definite answer, or he’ll be left wondering _what if_ forever.

He looks at the message on his phone again, for the fourth time since it had first popped up on his screen less than two minutes ago. It looks like he’s going to get that answer _very_ soon. But honestly, that suits him. Viktor’s been told that he comes off as a generally patient person, but _this_ particular flavor of waiting is killing him.

‘ _I have the (tentatively) final recordings of your pieces ready. Can we meet up to see if there are any final changes you want to make?’_

Viktor opens up a field to reply, typing, ‘ _Of course. I’m free for the rest of the day.’ –_ This is a lie, but he figures that he’s already given Yakov plenty to be disappointed about this week; what’s one more thing? _– ‘Where did you want to meet?’_

Yuuri’s reply comes quickly, reading, _‘I don’t want to inconvenience you—if you’re at your apartment I can drop by?’_

Viktor looks around his apartment, with its trash that _still_ needs to be taken out and sink full of dishes. Maybe not here... When he’d come back after Yuuri’s staying here for over a week, the apartment was cleaner than he’d left it. Viktor isn’t willing to let him see how much of a mess he’s made of it already. He could _probably_ get it cleaned up by the time Yuuri got here, but in all honesty he just doesn’t have the energy.

‘ _It’s no problem,_ ’ he texts back, ‘ _I can meet you somewhere closer to where you are.’_

‘ _Are you sure? If you really don’t mind, I was hoping to get some practice time in at school,’_ Yuuri replies.

He’s both charmed and a little miffed by Yuuri’s constant insistence that he doesn’t want to bother Viktor—especially considering how much trouble _he’s_ put Yuuri through, but also because... well, he’d do _anything_ just to make Yuuri smile; there’s really not much that _would_ inconvenience him enough to matter. Viktor replies, _‘I can meet you there. Should I text you when I get to the conservatory?’_

He’s already gotten up to go through his closet when Yuuri’s reply comes: _‘That sounds perfect, thank you.’_

Viktor grins again. And this is the moment that really makes it sink in—he’s going to be getting his music _today._ In hours, minutes, rather than days or weeks. He’s heard previews and snippets already, but his musical education being almost nonexistent, he hasn’t been able to use that knowledge to put together a big-picture idea of what the pieces will sound like.

There’s a grin turning up the corners of his mouth at the thought, and a buzzing feeling in his stomach, mixed excitement and nervousness.

Moving quickly, eager to get going, Viktor changes out of the sweatpants and loose shirt he’d been wearing and changes into a striped shirt he _knows_ looks good on him, and his best-fitting jeans. He finishes it off with a dab of cologne. He knows that his appearance won’t have much bearing on whether or not Yuuri will say yes to a date with him this time, but, well, it can’t hurt to sweeten the pot.

Makkachin is waiting by the door when Viktor is on his way out. She looks up at him hopefully, her tail wagging slowly.

Viktor sighs, and crouches down to hold her face in his hands. “Sorry, Makka. You can’t come with me this time.” Seeing her tail slowly go still hurts worse than any verbal rebuke he’s ever gotten. “If I get my way, you’ll get to see Yuuri _all_ the time, though,” he adds, which appears to mollify her a little bit.

With that, he gives her a final pat and lets himself out, locking the door behind him. The cab he’d called a few minutes before is waiting on the curb for him, and he tells the driver he’s going to the conservatory; she nods and pulls away.

For the duration of the ride, Viktor stares out the window, occasionally checking his phone, but he doesn’t get any messages. When the cab stops in front of the conservatory, it’s simultaneously too soon, and yet the wait had seemed interminable.

Viktor absently pays the driver and gets out of the car. He looks up at the school, a huge stone building with bas-relief carvings of instruments and musicians done in intricate detail. He’s been here a few times now, but he’d always had something on his mind that kept him from paying too much attention to it before.

As he ascends the steps to the main entrance, the doors opening into a cavernous space of dark wood paneling and more stone, Viktor wonders what it might have been like to go to school at a place like this. He’d gone to a sports boarding school until he’d been about 18, and had done the bare minimum required to graduate. He hadn’t felt like he’d needed to be able to do algebra or know the taxonomy of species—he’d had skating, and that had been all that mattered to him.

Now, with his career weighing him down like an anchor dragging across the ocean floor, and staring down the barrel of retirement, he can’t help but think that maybe he should have tried a little harder to find something else he was interested in, to have some sort of identity outside of his sport.

Firmly putting that out of his mind for now, Viktor turns toward the broad staircase that curves upward from the right side of the entry hall. He remembers the way to the little room where he’d found Yuuri a few months ago. For some reason, has a feeling that he’ll find him there again. The first landing leads to large, ornate doors and a sign labeled ‘recital hall.’ The second opens up to a long hall lined with what look like classrooms and offices. He passes these by and goes up to the third and topmost landing. These halls are narrower, lined with less impressive offices and the sort of small practice chambers he’s looking for.

Yuuri’s room is easy to find, being right at the end of the hall, in the corner of the building. Excitement and nerves alike flutter in his belly as he approaches the closed door. Will Yuuri even be there? Sure enough though, there are muted strains of string music coming through the door.

There’s another eruption of butterflies in his stomach, but he doesn’t hesitate, knocking softly.

“It’s open,” calls a voice, also muted through the thick wood, but unmistakably belonging to Yuuri. Viktor twists the knob and pushes the door open.

There’s a second in which Yuuri doesn’t look up, squinting bemusedly at something on his music stand, cello balanced between his knees. He looks good—he always does, but it’s warm enough in St. Petersburg to go without a coat now, and the way his dark blue v-neck clings to his body is… suffice to say, it’s a very good look.

“Hi,” Viktor says, after a second. Yuuri actually starts, jumping in his seat and having to reach out a hand and steady his cello.

“Viktor!” Yuuri exclaims, looking embarrassed, “I thought you were Phichit or Guang-Hong; I’m sorry.”

Viktor smiles and says, “It’s alright. Can I come in?”

Yuuri, still red, replies, “Yes, of course!” There’s plenty of room, but he still scoots closer to the wall, moving his music stand aside. “I didn’t expect you so soon,” he says, a wobbly grin briefly crossing his face.

Viktor takes a step into the room and closes the door behind him, taking another moment to study Yuuri before sitting down. He’s shaking a little, clearly nervous. Viktor isn’t quite sure why—surely not for his reaction to the music? He’s made it clear every step of the way that he’s loved it, right?

Regardless of the reason, he misses the Yuuri who had stayed up late talking with him a few weeks before on the night he’d left for Boston, who had been comfortable enough to let his guard down. He wants that back.

“Sorry about that,” Viktor says, maybe just a beat too late, “I should have let you know when I got here. So what are you working on?” Viktor asks, in an attempt to dispel Yuuri’s tense energy.

“It’s alright. This is a, uh,” Yuuri begins, his voice still a little unsteady. “It’s a solo piece I’m writing for my portfolio.”

Viktor nods, and realizes that this is the first time he’s actually seen Yuuri with his cello, which he knows is his primary instrument. “Can I hear?” He asks. Yuuri blanches from red to white almost impossibly quickly, and Viktor, remembering Yuuri’s performance anxiety, immediately qualifies, “Only if you want to, of course.”

Yuuri, smiling weakly again, says, “Maybe when it’s finished?”

“Of course,” Viktor says, trying to smile reassuringly while mentally kicking himself for his mistake.

Yuuri doesn’t say anything right away, his throat working as he struggles to find the words, or the courage to say them. Finally he asks, in a tone that’s almost farcically casual, “You’re probably more interested in hearing your own music anyway, right?”

Viktor exhales a half-laugh, and answers, “Well, I can’t deny that I’m eager to hear it, but hearing you play _is_ a delight, regardless of what it is.”

Yuuri’s right back to being flushed after that comment, and looks down, pushing his hair back when it falls over his glasses. Viktor wants to know if it’s something he did to make Yuuri like this—it’s usually flattering to know he makes someone nervous, but there’s a difference between someone getting flustered when he smiles and someone—specifically _Yuuri—_ shaking and unable to look him in the eye, especially when their more recent interactions had been somewhere in the vicinity of comfortable.

In a low voice, he asks, “You’re not worried about what I’ll think, are you? You know I’ve loved everything I’ve heard, right? From the first preview you gave me to the pipe organ part last week. I’m sure the finished songs will be even better.”

Yuuri takes a breath, still shaky, but deep. When he speaks, he sounds a little steadier. “In my head,” he says, “I know that, but... there’s part of me that still can’t believe it.”

“How about we listen,” Viktor suggests—because he _is_ eager to hear his music, “So I can prove that I’m happy with it?”

Yuuri takes another deep breath, and says, “Yes. Definitely.” With that, he scoots forward to lay the cello in its case, and then picks up his bag from the floor, pulling out his laptop and headphones. These he shyly offers to Viktor, who takes them instinctively.

There’s another minute while he gets the computer woken up and navigates to the folder containing the project files.

When he’s ready, Yuuri looks up at Viktor and motions that he should put on the headphones, though he still looks like he’s dreading it.

“You’re not going to listen with me?” Viktor asks.

“The audio quality is _much_ better with those,” Yuuri says, hesitates, then adds, with something approaching a grin, “And I’ve heard these pieces _plenty_ of times, now.”

Viktor chuckles, and slips the headphones on as he remarks, “That’s fair.” As soon as his ears are covered, the ambient noises of the room cease, and Viktor has just enough time to think that maybe _he_ should get some good headphones like this before the music starts.

The piece opens gently, a simple line on piano, and a haunting echo on horns, and subtly, a counterpoint: the sound of waves and the faint cries of seabirds—it’s the recording from the beach, and a smile creeps across his face as he recognizes it. Then, the strings swell in a tight, tense chord that makes him hold his breath, only releasing it when the dissonance is resolved.

The piece builds, each added instrument and harmony pushing it toward a precipice. There’s a drumbeat, too; it sounds digital, electronic, inorganic clicks that drive the melody forward, but there’s something primal about the beat, too. Altogether, it’s a piece that sounds like passion and heartache, that encompasses both the exhilaration and the pain of living.

As the piece descends, ending on a fading melody on a string instrument, accompanied only by the sound of waves, Viktor remembers the only direction he’d given Yuuri when he’d first asked him to write this music: that the theme is ‘life and love.’

He hadn’t known what to expect, but he _certainly_ hadn’t known it was possible to write a piece of music that so poignantly captured the aching beauty of both.

When the last note fades away, Viktor pulls the headphones off, unable to say anything other than, “Wow,” as a wide grin splits his face.

Yuuri, however, looking at the screen of his computer rather than at Viktor, says, “Before you say anything, please listen to the second piece, too.”

“I—okay, sure,” Viktor says, blinking and putting the headphones back on. Like a bandaid, he supposes.

The music starts a moment later, this time with a rhythmic line on what he thinks is a harp, soon joined by strings and brass in a soaring melody. He’ll need to listen to it _many_ more times to decide anything for sure, but there—where the horns hold that note—he’ll do a jump there, and here, where the piano and harp come back in, he’ll land and go straight into a spin.

The first piece—the short program—had been all about tension and release, a tender exploration of the music’s theme. This one, though, is a celebration. The instruments build, a near-triumphant chorus of sound, and then the pipe organ line breaks through, and Viktor feels his jaw drop, but he’s unable to stop it.

This is... everything. It’s more than he could have asked for. If the feeling of pure exultation he’d felt the first time he’d perfectly landed a quad flip, or what it might be like to kiss someone after months of wanting to, could be directly translated into music, it would sound _just_ like this.

When the piece ends, Viktor slides the headphones off again, and once more all he can say is, “ _Wow_.”

Yuuri’s looking at him though, still wary, waiting for feedback, despite the fact that Viktor can’t control the smile on his face and it _must_ be giving his thoughts away. He wonders, wildly, for just a second, if _actually_ kissing him would get the idea across—but no. He has to do that part _right._

“It’s everything I imagined and more,” he says, finally. There’s really not much more he _can_ say—he lacks the musical education to be technically specific, and as for the part he _can_ comment on, the emotional aspect, well, he doesn’t think there are words in any of the languages he speaks.

“So you’re happy with it?” Yuuri asks, finally looking him in the eyes, and Viktor can’t look away.

“ _Thrilled,_ ” he says, and the urge to kiss him is almost painfully strong—it would be so easy. All he’d have to do is lean forward, pull him in… Forcing himself to break the eye contact and focusing on a spot on the wall slightly to Yuuri’s left, Viktor says instead, “It’s perfect. I don’t even know what else to say.”

Yuuri sighs audibly, and some of the tension goes out of his shoulders.

For a long moment, Viktor isn’t sure how to go on from here. It clicks, after a few seconds though, that there’s still one order of business waiting. “I need to pay you,” he remarks.

Yuuri looks up, and runs his hand through his hair again. “I—you don’t have to.”

Viktor laughs incredulously. “With all the work you put in? I absolutely do.”

Still looking somewhere to Viktor’s left, Yuuri shrugs and says, “It was something I wanted to do.”

“Still,” Viktor says, shaking his head slightly. With a little coaxing, he’s able to get Yuuri to divulge the information Viktor needs to pay him, and he opens the money transfer app on his phone and sends it over, plus extra for watching Makkachin, immediately.

“There,” Viktor says, when he’s tapped the ‘confirm’ button. “Sent.”

Yuuri quietly says, “Thank you.”

And with that, there’s no bond of obligation, no debt between them. Viktor has his music, and Yuuri has been paid for his work. With anyone else, Viktor would say goodbye, be on his way, and that would be it.

He doesn’t want to do that, now.

He _has_ to let Yuuri know, has to make it unequivocal. He takes a deep breath, but Yuuri beats him to it.

“If it’s alright—I’d like to see the program you choreograph, when it’s done?” His voice is hesitant, as if this upsetting of the dynamic between them has him a little at a loss, too.

Viktor sighs lightly, grateful for the opening. “Of _course,”_ he says. There’s no one else he wants there more, no one else who he’s _excited_ to perform for.

He needs to say it. Now or never. Viktor takes another breath, looks Yuuri square in the eye, and dives right in. “I know you’re busy, and it must be a relief to be done with this,” he gestures to encompass the project, “But I’d really like to see you again—in general; not just to let you see the program.” Just in case that was too vague, he adds, “I like you, Yuuri. A lot.”

Yuuri immediately goes red and ducks his head, but Viktor thinks there’s a faint smile on his face nonetheless. “I’d like that too,” he says, after a torturous pause, and Viktor’s heart jumps into his mouth. _Yes! Finally!_ But Yuuri goes on, adding, “I don’t have many friends in St. Petersburg.”

And immediately his heart plummets back down into his stomach. _Friends. Oh._ Of course. He’s letting Viktor down _very_ gently, but it’s still a rejection. He takes a deep, steadying breath. He’s a good performer, good at hiding how he feels, and he needs those skills now as he very carefully does not react.

After the initial sting wears off, Viktor realizes he has to reply. But what to say? He thinks—no, he _knows_ that having Yuuri in his life as a friend is still infinitely better than not having him at all. Friendship isn’t a consolation prize—and besides, Viktor doesn’t want to be the kind of guy who uses rejection as an excuse to be a dick.

He swallows, breathes again, and when he’s sure his voice will be steady, casual, he says, “I’m glad you consider me one. You know, I did only get the one piano lesson from you. Any chance I could talk you out of some more?”

Yuuri looks up, almost startled. “You really want to learn?”

With a smile that’s almost real, Viktor tilts his head to the side and says, “I do.” And really, he does. He’s never going to be a concert pianist, or probably even be _good,_ but he should at least try to pursue other hobbies, now that he’s this close to retirement.

“I—yes, definitely,” Yuuri says, and the smile on his face _absolutely_ is real.

Recalling the thought he’d had a few days ago, Viktor asks, “Do you know how to skate?”

Yuuri shakes his head, looking a little confused and embarrassed, but he answers, “I’ve, um, never skated before in my life.”

The smile that breaks over Viktor’s face at this _is_ real. “Perfect,” he says, “If you’re interested, I can pay you for the piano lessons by teaching you to skate?”

The confusion on Yuuri’s face morphs into a startled expression, and he quickly protests, “Oh, no, please, you don’t have to go out of your way...”

“You’ll be going out of _your_ way for me,” Viktor reminds him.

“I know, but...”

“But what?” he prompts when Yuuri trails off.

“But you’re _the_ top skater in the _world_ —I’m a dime-a-dozen musician,” Yuuri says, looking down again.

Viktor doesn’t even know where to _begin_ with how wrong he is—Yuuri is _easily_ world-class, his work is _amazing._ But it would probably be useless to try to convince him of that, so instead he says, “Well, you’re the best musician in _my_ world.”

Yuuri opens his mouth like he’s about to reply, but the words hang there, unsaid, and after a second he closes his mouth again, flushing prettily.

Viktor wonders if he should cut back on comments like that—he _did_ just get turned down, after all, which is probably a hint to stop flirting. But he can’t deny that he likes leaving Yuuri speechless.

“Okay—I, yes, okay,” Yuuri says after another moment passes, and a grin creeps across his own face, seemingly against his will.

“Good,” Viktor says, relieved that at least _this_ worked out. He gestures to Yuuri’s cello, lying forlornly in its case. “I should go, and let you get back to work,” he suggests, pitching it into a question.

Yuuri looks down at the instrument with something like surprise on his face, as if he’d forgotten what he’d come here to do before Viktor distracted him.

“I—yes, I’m sure you’re busy; I don’t want to keep you,” Yuuri says, polite as ever.

“Never too busy for this,” he assures Yuuri, and gets out of his chair. “I’ll text you? About the lessons?”

“Yes!” Yuuri agrees, and Viktor grins, a bittersweet twist to his mouth. At least when he leaves, it won’t be for the last time. This is better than nothing.

“See you, Yuuri,” he says.

“Talk to you later,” Yuuri agrees, and with that Viktor opens the door and lets himself out.

Not for the last time.

It’s better than nothing.

 

-

 

Life settles back into its routine. Almost every day, Viktor goes to the rink to practice, vague ideas for a program forming in his mind. He goes to the gym. He takes Makkachin on runs. It’s no different than the year before, or the year before that, except that it’s nothing like that at all.

When he laces up his skates now, it’s not with a vague sense of dread. When he glides out onto the ice, there’s a muted but present sense of excitement and possibility. When he jumps and spins, his music – Yuuri’s music – playing in his ears, there’s a fluttering sense of elation, of joy in movement that he hasn’t felt in so, so long.

It’s been a week since he first heard the finished versions of his program pieces, a week since he’s seen Yuuri. A week since he’d been turned down by Yuuri, also. Viktor’s had a lot of time to think about that. It had hurt—of course it had, but his initial impulse had been right. It really is better to have Yuuri as a friend than to lose him entirely. And regardless, that’s not nothing. Mila and Georgi tell him _all the time_ how he needs to have someone (other than his dog) to spend time with.

And, well, they’re not entirely wrong. He’s at the top of his sport—that kind of dedication just doesn’t _leave_ a lot of free time to be invested in much of anything else. And in the past couple of years, the more the noose of his career tightened around his neck, choking all the joy out of him, he hasn’t had the inclination to care about much, either.

He’s not _completely_ alone—he’s got a few people he’s acquainted with, and a couple he’d call friends. Chris comes to mind, but there are limits there. They’re competitors, for one. They live in different countries, for another. And even if those things are removed from the equation, he doesn’t think he’d be comfortable _completely_ dropping his act around him. Chris expects Viktor to be the flirty, charismatic, maybe a little air-headed man he presents himself to be around his fellow skaters. It’s hard to be genuine around someone he’s shown that faҫade to for so many years.

But that’s all beside the point. Now he _does_ have someone he doesn’t have to put on a mask for, and to be honest, it’s as intimidating as it is freeing. But damn it, despite everything, he’s going to hold onto that.

And he’s making plans to ensure that it doesn’t slip his grasp, which is why he hesitates after practice one evening, hanging back to catch Mila where none of the others can overhear.

She’s smart, and figures out what he’s doing almost immediately, instinctively lowering her voice to ask, “Okay, what is it you want that you’re trying to be so sneaky about?”

Viktor hesitates, but decides to just get it out. “You know the spare key to the rink that Yakov has, for late practice?”

“I do,” Mila confirms, looking like she’s already beginning to cotton on to what’s happening.

“Do you think you could get it for me?” Viktor asks.

“Why can’t you ask Yakov yourself?” Mila asks.

“Because he’ll know what I want it for,” Viktor answers, forcing a sheepish grin.

“I get it, I get it,” Mila says, her face echoing a teasing version of the same expression. “Don’t want dad to know about your new boyfriend.”

The smile on his face falters noticeably before he can fix it back in place. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Viktor says in a _too_ casual tone.

“Yet you don’t protest me calling Yakov your dad,” Mila replies in the same tone. Then she does a double take at Viktor’s expression, which he immediately tries to school back to his usual pleasant smile, but it’s too late.

Mila’s face softens, her eyebrows drawing together. “It’s none of my business,” she begins, as if that’s ever stopped her before, and Viktor kind of hates how perceptive she is. Undeterred, she goes on, “But what happened with your boy? I haven’t seen you look this bummed since the time Makkachin got sick while you were away at a competition.”

Hesitating again, Viktor considers how much he wants to tell her—if anything. It’s just like what he’d been thinking about Chris, a few minutes ago. He likes Mila, and genuinely enjoys having her as a rink-mate most of the time, but they’re not _this_ level of close. But maybe... he should at least try to be a little more genuine.

So, after a moment, he lets the grin slide off his face, and he says, “I asked him out. He said he just wants to be friends.”

“Ouch,” Mila says, and reaches out to put a hand on his elbow. Viktor startles a little at the contact—it’s another thing he doesn’t really _do._ Not casually like this.

Viktor goes on; now that he’s started, it’s like a floodgate opened. “And I _know_ it’s his right to do that, that he doesn’t owe me anything, and I shouldn’t be upset about it, and I _am_ happy to be his friend, but...” He trails off, finally able to dam up the flow of words.

“You’re half right,” Mila says when he’s been quiet for a moment, letting her hand drop back to her side. “But you _do_ get to feel hurt. That’s not... wrong of you.”

Viktor takes a deep breath, at the limit of how far he’s willing to take this line of conversation, and says, “Thanks. So, about the key?”

Mila gives him a disapproving look at how he’s closed back up, but rolls her eyes, throws up her hands, and says, “Yeah, I’ll get it for you. One question, though—why me?”

Viktor snorts a half-laugh, and answers, “Georgi wouldn’t be able to keep quiet, and Yuri wouldn’t help me on principle.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mila says after a moment of consideration, grimacing. “Anyway, yeah, I’ll get it for you. Tomorrow okay?”

“Tomorrow’s perfect,” Viktor answers, and just as she’s about to turn and gather up her things to go home, he adds, “And Mila? Thanks.”

Mila smiles then, a real one, and says, “No problem. I’m glad you talked to me about it.”

Viktor just nods, but honestly? He’s glad that he did, too, even if he’d clammed up when it had started to get too real. Maybe he _should_ give this ‘being honest and vulnerable’ thing a chance.

Although, when he thinks of how _uncomfortable_ he’s been every time he’s tried… maybe just in small doses.

Regardless, he needs to get on with his own day, too. After all, Yuuri will be coming to his apartment in a few hours to start really teaching him music. He’s been telling himself all day to play it cool, but that’s not something Viktor has ever been good at.

He hasn’t felt motivated to do _much,_ especially the past few years, but when he does decide to do something, he goes hard. It’s all or nothing. _Restraint_ isn’t exactly a character trait of his.

But it’ll have to be, to make this work, and god damn does he want to make this work. There’s just one more thing he needs to get before he’ll be ready to go home. He pops into the little shop attached to the rink that does sharpening and skate repair.

“Hi,” he says to the shopkeeper, who barely looks up, used to dealing with him and his rink-mates.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks.

“Can I borrow a sizing chart?” he asks.

“Um, sure?” she answers after a moment, though the tone shapes the words more like a question.

“Great, thanks,” Viktor says, flashing her a blinding interview-worthy smile. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“I—what—okay,” she says at last, and Viktor picks up one of the charts, waves, and heads home.

By the time he’s made it back, walked Makkachin around the block to get her some exercise, and taken a shower, it’s almost time for Yuuri to arrive. Still, he hesitates in front of his closet, unsure as to how he should dress.

This isn’t a date. Yuuri’s made it clear that he’s not interested in that. So there’s no point in dressing up—if it hadn’t worked last week, it won’t work now. With a resigned sigh, he puts on a pair of lounge pants and a soft t-shirt, and almost the moment he’s finished dressing, there’s a knock at the door.

Makkachin _woofs_ softly, and trots past Viktor to stand in front of the door. As if she can tell who’s on the other side, her tail begins wag hard enough to blur.

Viktor, a step behind, nudges her out of the way and opens the door with a smile, unprepared for how nervous he suddenly is.

He’s never quite been able to tell exactly where he stands with Yuuri; they’re both such private people in their own ways, adept at keeping their thoughts hidden. And Viktor’s had to confront the fact that he’s been reading him wrong in at least _one_ area. There could be more.

Still, it’s hard to mistake the way Yuuri’s face lights up with a grin for anything other than what he thinks it is when the door opens. A second later, Makkachin wiggles through the gap and yips in joy to see Yuuri, who leans down to tousle the pouf of fur on her head.

“Hi,” Viktor says breathlessly, lamely, because despite all the psyching himself up he’d done, Yuuri’s still so beautiful that his heart is trying to jump out of his chest and straight into the other man’s arms.

“Hi,” Yuuri replies, looking up shyly. “Can I come in?”

“Oh,” Viktor says, realizing that he’s standing in the doorway like a lovestruck fool—which he _really_ needs to not be doing, “Of course.” He steps to the side as Yuuri comes in, followed by Makkachin. As he’s slipping his shoes off just inside the threshold, Viktor asks, “Have you eaten? I can order something for dinner.”

This isn’t a ‘date’ thing, he tells himself. He’s just being a good host.

But Yuuri frowns slightly, and says, “That’s alright; I’m not hungry.”

“Okay,” Viktor replies with false nonchalance and silently reminding himself _again_ to play it cool, “Let me know if you change your mind.” To change the subject, he asks, “How are your classes going?”

Yuuri gently takes his backpack off and sets it on the couch as he says, “Um, alright? Finals are in a few weeks and a lot of deadlines...”

“Oh, you’re sure you have time for this? I don’t want you to fall behind...” Viktor says, his own brow furrowing. He’s been looking forward to this a lot, but…

“No, no, it’s fine,” Yuuri quickly assures him, flashing an apologetic smile, “I want to do this with you.” He pauses, seems to notice the double entendre in his words and, blushing, quickly continues, “Is practice going well?”

Viktor’s breath catches, and he can _still_ see how he got the wrong idea from Yuuri. If he didn’t know for sure, now, that there isn’t any interest there, he’d still think that... well, it doesn’t matter. He _does_ know, now.

“It’s going well,” he finally says, “I have a lot of ideas for this year’s program. We usually do an exhibition, a sort of... sneak preview show toward the end of May. I hope you’ll come see it, if you can.”

“Yes!” Yuuri exclaims, and asks, “That’s only about a month and a half away. You have time to choreograph a whole program in that time?”

Viktor grins, looking at the floor, and says, “Well, it’s hard not to be inspired with such good music to work with.”

“Oh,” Yuuri replies. “Um, thank you.”

“Thank _you,_ ” Viktor corrects him teasingly, then, afraid he’s approaching flirting territory, quickly changes the subject and says, “Should we…?” He gestures at the piano.

Looking a little startled, like he’d forgotten why he had come here, Yuuri answers, “Oh, yes,” and unzips his backpack to take out two slim books.

“Go ahead and get set up,” Viktor says, and ducks into his bedroom to roll out the desk chair. When he brings it over, Yuuri looks at it quizzically, so he explains, “There’s really not enough room on the bench for both of us to fit comfortably.” Viktor grins and shrugs, as if to say it’s no big deal, as if it’s not part of his carefully formulated plan to _play it cool,_ at least while he figures out the new dynamic between them. Nevertheless, it seems to work, because Yuuri moves the piano bench over so that Viktor has enough room to get in beside him and sit down in the chair.

“What are the books?” He asks, when they’re both settled in.

“Uh,” Yuuri says, and opens one, holding it so that they can both see, “It’s a beginner piano book—I thought, if you don’t mind... We might start out by teaching you how to read music?”

Viktor grins and says, “That sounds good to me, but you have to promise to be patient with me.”

Yuuri returns the expression, saying, “I’m sure you’ll pick it up faster than I’ll pick up skating.”

He answers with a short laugh, and his grin grows into a full-on smile. It’s an absolute joy—mixed with a touch of relief—to know that Yuuri is looking forward to that as much as he has. Absently, he reminds himself not to forget about the sizing chart stashed in his equipment bag.

They spend the next hour going through the book. The oblique language of music, one Yuuri is fluent in, slowly becomes more transparent to Viktor as the minutes pass. As Yuuri explains everything, his voice soft but confident, the dots and lines on the pages begin to resolve into something comprehensible, and Viktor learns how they relate to the keys on his piano.

He’s so glad he decided to keep this thing—he’d thought about selling or donating it more than a few times, and truthfully the only reason he hadn’t was because it was less effort to just let it sit and collect dust.

And lose its tune, apparently. Viktor tries not to grin at the way Yuuri winces every time one of them plays a chord. His ear isn’t good enough yet to be able to tell exactly what’s wrong, but even he can tell that, compared to the professional recordings he’s heard, there’s something that sounds... not good... about his piano.  


“I didn’t remember to get it tuned, sorry,” Viktor says with an apologetic shrug after a particularly strident chord makes Yuuri grimace. “I’ll get that done this week.”

“It’s no big deal; it’s not that bad,” Yuuri protests, a valiant effort, but judging by the strain in his voice, it’s clearly a lie.

Huffing a half-laugh, Viktor asks, “You said your friend Phichit knows how to do that, right?”

There’s a long minute of hesitation, in which the expression on Yuuri’s face straddles the border between apprehension and outright dread. Viktor, concerned that he’d made a mistake, is beginning to wonder if maybe he should say something to change the subject again when, finally, Yuuri sighs and says, “Yeah. Yeah, he’d be happy to help.”

There has to be some reason for that reaction, and honestly Viktor is more than a little curious, but in the interest of ‘playing it cool’ he decides not to press.

“Is it good enough to keep going with the lesson?” Viktor asks, gently redirecting the conversation back onto safe ground.

“Oh, yes,” Yuuri says, perking back up momentarily, but after just a second, his expression closes up again. He goes on, “Actually, would you be okay with taking a break? I don’t want to impose, but I’d really like some water.”

Almost the second the words leave his mouth, Yuuri’s stomach gives a loud rumble, and he goes bright red.

Viktor, unable to stifle a laugh, asks, “Just water? Are you _sure_ you won’t let me get you something to eat?”

Yuuri, eyes downcast and brow furrowed, like he’s reprimanding his stomach for betraying him, repeats, “I _really_ don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition; I offered, after all,” Viktor reminds him, “And anyway, I haven’t had dinner either.” With that, he gets up to fetch the takeout menu for his favorite restaurant from the top of the refrigerator.

After a few seconds Yuuri trails him and Viktor passes the menu over, saying, “Whatever you want.” He motions at the table to let Yuuri know that he’s welcome to sit down, which he does while Viktor fills a glass of water for him.

Viktor joins him at the table and slides the cup over to him. Yuuri says a quick, “Thank you,” and takes a sip. He keeps scanning the menu in front of him, and Viktor occupies himself by leaning down to scratch Makkachin’s ears when she comes over for attention.

He’s looking at her, rather than at Yuuri, but Viktor can _sense_ the nervous energy radiating off the other man. Yuuri goes a long minute without saying anything—which is fine; some people like to take a few minutes to look over a menu before deciding. However, as the minutes pass and there’s still no response from Yuuri, Viktor begins to suspect that there’s more to it than just that.

Sure enough, one glance up at Yuuri’s face is enough to confirm that he’s in overthinking panic mode, his eyes unfocused behind his glasses. As Viktor watches, he sweeps his hair back from his face. It’s something he’s come to recognize as a nervous habit of Yuuri’s.

Reaching for a tone that’s simultaneously flippant and sincere, Viktor says, “Yuuri, do you know what you want or should I just order one of everything?”

Yuuri physically jumps at the sound of Viktor’s voice, and quickly stammers, “I—it’s alright, I’m not really that hungry; you don’t have to get me anything.”

Biting back a laugh, Viktor replies, “One of everything it is, then.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, preparing to dial the restaurant’s number. He’s joking, but he’s also not—he _will_ order the entire menu if he has to. He’s officially given up on his ‘play it cool’ plan, but there’s no going back now.

“Oh my _god,_ Viktor, please don’t do that,” Yuuri says, covering the part of the menu that lists the phone number.

“Not gonna work; I can look it up online,” Viktor teases, his voice lilting up into a sing-song. And he does, making good on his threat.

He’s just started entering the number when Yuuri finally says, “I’ll take the number 14, okay?”

Immediately surrendering his phone, Viktor grins. “Thank you,” he says, stifling another laugh at Yuuri’s expression. “I didn’t know where I was going to keep that much food.”

Yuuri blinks at Viktor, apparently dumbstruck, and after a long moment, he puts his face in his hands, pushing his glasses up into his hair to keep them out of the way. There’s a flash of concern, of something approaching panic that he’d made a serious misstep, but after a second, Viktor recognizes the shaking of Yuuri’s shoulders for what it is. He’s laughing.

Viktor isn’t sure what to say, so he waits. At last, Yuuri looks up, still shaking his head and re-positioning his glasses with one hand. “You were really going to order everything on the menu. You were really going to do it.” It’s not a question. Yuuri must have been able to read it on his face: Viktor may have been bluffing, but had he been called on it, he absolutely would have changed his plan and done it.

“If that’s what it took,” Viktor admits, shrugging his shoulders as if to insist that it’s a completely reasonable response.

“Why, though?” Yuuri asks, a little of the hesitancy returning to his voice.

Viktor pauses for as long as it takes him to inhale. For once, he thinks before he speaks, and gives a version of the truth. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Too busy to...” He grimaces, and moves on. “So I like to take care of the ones I do have, even if that means ordering a whole menu to make sure they’ll eat something.”

There’s a part of him that hurts to call Yuuri his friend, but it’s small, almost something he can ignore. They _are_ friends. That’s all Viktor is going to get, and he’ll gladly take it. Even if he aches for more. He can get over that.

Blushing now, Yuuri nods slightly, apparently not knowing what to say in reply. Viktor smiles dismissively, and changes the subject. “And it worked, didn’t it? Number 14, you said?”

Yuuri just nods again, though he doen’t look _entirely_ happy, and Viktor goes ahead and finishes dialing the number and puts in their order.

“It’ll be about half an hour; is that alright?” he asks after ending the call.

Yuuri starts at being addressed, and says, “Of course! You really didn’t have to...” He seems to reconsider his protest, sighs, and doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.

“I really did,” Viktor insists anyway. He gets up from the table and starts walking toward where his skate bag is stored. “While we wait, there’s something I wanted to check, if you don’t mind?”

“Um, sure?” Yuuri answers, and also gets up, taking a few steps over at the gesture Viktor makes, beckoning him forward.

Viktor pulls out the sizing chart he’d borrowed from the rink earlier, and sets it on the ground. Makkachin immediately comes over to give the new object an investigatory sniff, but loses interest almost as quickly.

“What’s that?” Yuuri asks.

“Sizing chart for skates,” Viktor answers.

“Why?”

“So I can find out what size skates you wear.” That part is true, if obvious. What he says next is a complete fabrication, though. “They lock up the rental skates when they close the rink, so I need to set a pair aside for our lesson this weekend.”

Apparently placated, Yuuri just says, “Oh,” and steps closer. “What should I do?”

“Just put your heel here,” Viktor directs, and when Yuuri does, he says, “Perfect.” Crouching down to see the small numbers, Viktor makes a note of the size. After a second, he requests, “Other foot,” and Yuuri complies easily.

“That should do it,” Viktor says after he’s double-checked the size.

Yuuri steps off the chart and says, “Thanks for doing that for me.”

“Of course,” Viktor replies easily. “You’re going out of your way to help me. It’s the least I could do.”

Yuuri flashes him a smile then, pleased but a little uncomfortable, as if he isn’t quite used to people wanting to do things for him.

If he had his way, Viktor would change that very quickly. As it is, though, he just returns the smile and puts the chart back in his bag.

When Yuuri asks to use his bathroom a few minutes later, Viktor uses the opportunity to frantically type an email to his representative for his skate sponsor. He asks for Yuuri’s size, in a beginner model, and the fastest shipping he can get—overnight, if possible. Yes, he’s aware that isn’t his size and he hasn’t worn beginner boots since before he was ten. No, he doesn’t care about the postage cost. Yes, she can charge it to his account.

He’s sure his poor rep will be deeply confused by the order, but Viktor figures that as long as he has this resource available to him, he may as well put it to good use while he still can—he’s concerned that his sponsors will start to drop him pretty quickly once word of his retirement starts to get around.

He’s just hitting send when Yuuri comes back out, and Viktor gives him an innocent smile, locking the phone and putting it back in his pocket. Yuuri returns the smile guilelessly. Excellent, he doesn’t suspect a thing.

It’s not too much longer before the food arrives, ahead of schedule, and they sit down to eat. They end up talking long after the food is gone and the takeout containers have been cleared away, and the clock ticks past the hour that Yuuri should have gone back to his own apartment.

They don’t go back to the piano for the rest of the evening, but if Yuuri minds that, he doesn’t say anything, and Viktor isn’t about to complain.

By the time Yuuri finally says goodnight, firmly refusing the offer of a cab andleaving for the bus stop, Viktor thinks he may be on his way to being okay with just being friends, to figuring out _how_ to be just friends with Yuuri.

But from the way his heart clenches in his chest when he thinks back on the sound of Yuuri’s laugh, he’s still got a long way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You all mean a lot to me. Sorry I'm running behind on replying to comments again.
> 
> If you're here for the warning, here's the version with chapter spoilers: Viktor is a Rich Idiot who doesn't get consent before buying people (Yuuri) expensive presents, and does not, at the moment, see anything wrong with his actions. Bear with me; I have a plan here, I promise.
> 
> EDIT: shit, i forgot to post links to the music earlier.  
> OKAY SO these are a little less clear but the short program piece takes flavor from the following three songs:  
> [Only the Winds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eWewdTkghM) by Ólafur Arnalds (with some elements borrowed from the [Nautik. remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aqbyX6Y-vM))  
> [Earnestly Yours](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6REt5ZE45I) by Keaton Henson (feat Ren Ford)   
> and [Adagio for Strings Op. 11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtjKvif3z8Q) composed by Samuel Barber (particularly the bit starting around 6:30)
> 
> The free skate piece is based on:  
> [Arrival of the Birds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2rIm_Td2Mk) by The Cinematic Orchestra  
> [Waves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0h62sN82_n0) by Mattia Cupelli (particularly the bit beginning around 4:55)  
> and of course, [the pipe organ scene in August Rush.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtKVaktQjIs)


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some (healthy!) conflict in this chapter (stemming from the events of the last chapter)

_**(Mid-late April 2016)** _

 

The streetlamps are just flickering on when Yuuri steps down from the bus to the sidewalk. The crescendo of nerves that have been fluttering in his stomach for the past few hours explode into a furious pounding in his chest—he has to pause and take a steadying breath before he can go on.

Once his knees stop feeling like they’re about to give out, Yuuri makes himself go on. He’d agreed to this, and he _does_ want to do it—but he’s a bit of an anxious mess about it, too. More so than usual. If anyone had told him just half a year ago that the most decorated athlete in figure skating history would be _asking_ to give him private lessons, he wouldn’t have even considered believing it.

What a turn his life has taken, Yuuri thinks as he walks the half-block down to the skating rink Viktor had given him directions to. He tries not to drag his feet, but there’s a part of him that’s having trouble accepting that this is real. Stepping foot in the rink, though, will definitely make it so.

He hesitates in front of the doors for a long moment, his blood pounding in his ears so fiercely that he feels almost giddy with it. Another pause, another steadying breath, and he pushes the doors open, emerging into a rubber-floored lobby.

There’s only a single light on behind the counter, and no one in sight. Yuuri can only assume that Viktor had gotten here before him—after all, the front door had been unlocked. Still, he hesitates just inside for a moment, feeling like he’s trespassing.

Shaking his head to clear the sensation—he _had_ been invited here—Yuuri squares his shoulders and goes on through the glass doors that must lead to the rink.

The first thing Yuuri notices is the temperature drop—the weather lately has been relatively decent, but he’s glad he brought a jacket with him. The second thing is that _his_ music is playing. He recognizes it immediately; he _had_ spend months writing it, after all. Once he’s had a second to adjust to the cold and the shock of hearing his own work, he takes in the room.

Around the perimeter of the room, there are rows of bleachers and doors that presumably lead to locker rooms, but they’re all obscured, cast into shadow. The only light in the room comes from high overhead, illuminating the ice and not much else.

And in the center of the rink, skating in effortless lines that look almost lazy, is Viktor. He’s far away enough that Yuuri can’t be entirely sure, but it looks like his eyes are closed. At any rate, he doesn’t seem to have given any sign of realizing that Yuuri is there, the music drowning out any noise he’s made.

Yuuri watches him for a moment, a little in awe. This is the first time he’s seen Viktor skate in person, and even though he’s not doing any jumps or spins, the way he moves across the ice like it’s the most natural thing in the world is... impressive, to say the least.

And, shit. He’s going to be skating to _Yuuri’s_ music this season. It’s _Yuuri’s_ music playing over the sound system. That’s… A whole bunch of feelings he doesn’t have time to try to unpack right now.

Yuuri realizes that he’s been staring just a little too long, so he coughs politely. Another second, and it’s clear that it wasn’t enough to get Viktor’s attention past the swell of strings and the scraping of ice. Taking a few steps forward, enough so that he can rest his hand on the rail, Yuuri gently calls Viktor’s name.

He manages to speak during a lull in the music, and Viktor turns toward him. Even from halfway across the ice, Yuuri can see the smile that breaks out over his face. He feels an answering one spread across his own face as Viktor skates toward him. He turns and stops with a spray of ice just before hitting the wall. Again, his movements are smooth, ethereally effortless.

“Hi,” Viktor says after he’s come to a complete stop.

“Hi,” Yuuri replies, and _he’s_ the one to sound out of breath even though he hasn’t even touched the ice yet. Viktor’s dressed in all black, the clothing fitting close to his form, and up close he’s stunning.

Before the silence has a chance to grow awkward, Yuuri clears his throat and says, “I’m, um, thanks again for doing this for me.”

Viktor’s smile, impossibly, grows even more gorgeous. “It really is my pleasure,” he insists. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but hesitates, shrugs almost imperceptibly, and goes on. “Come on down to the gate; I’ve got your skates there for you.”

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees a little faintly, the nerves slamming full-force back into him as his heart tries to jump out of his chest, blood thumping like a heavy bass beat in his ears. He’s never even been _roller_ skating, never even _considered_ learning to ice skate. Not until Viktor had offered out of the blue to teach him, and in that moment he’d wanted it _fiercely._

Now, though, all he can think is that he’s going to embarrass himself in front of the person he _least_ wants to look like an idiot in front of.

As he walks down to the open gate in the rink wall, he makes an effort to steady his breath and control his spiraling thoughts.

Yes, he’s never skated before, but Viktor knows that. He won’t expect Yuuri to be able to land an axel by the end of the night. It’s really not so different from him teaching Viktor to read and play music—except that it’s _completely_ different. There are hundreds of people in St. Petersburg alone who could teach basic piano, but there’s only _one_ Viktor Nikiforov, five-time world champion and Olympic gold medalist.

He really _has_ stopped thinking of Viktor like that, he realizes, mildly chagrined. But being here, finally _seeing_ him skate… It’s a pretty dramatic reminder. Still, Yuuri thinks as he takes another deep breath, this is something Viktor had _offered_ to do—something he’d seemed pretty excited about the last time they’d met up.

He just hopes he’s worthy of that.

But he doesn’t think he will be.

Viktor had beaten him to the gate, and is slipping some plastic caps onto his blades when Yuuri catches up. He pops the second one into place and looks up, flashing another grin at Yuuri. He beckons him with a lazy wave toward the bench nearby.

Anxiety knotting in his belly, Yuuri goes. There’s a pair of skates on the bench, their black leather an even darker shade in the dimness of the rink’s perimeter. He looks over at Viktor just as the music shuts off, and sees him unplugging his phone from what he recognizes as a sound system control box.

“You look nervous,” Viktor says as he pockets his phone and walks over.

A thin half-laugh escapes from Yuuri’s throat before he can bite it back. “Very,” he admits.

“Don’t worry,” Viktor says breezily, “I won’t let you fall.”

Another one of those perfect smiles, and Yuuri can’t help but think that it’s too late for that.

“I’m, um, less worried about that than I am about making a fool of myself,” Yuuri admits shyly.

A funny look crosses Viktor’s face, but he just asks, “Remind me, how many times did you have to tell me the notes on a staff earlier this week?”

 _Six,_ Yuuri remembers; Viktor had had a bit of a hard time with that during their music lesson, though he’d gotten it in the end.

“Not so many,” he says noncommittally, and Viktor rolls his eyes at the bland answer.

“You see my point, though?” Viktor asks, arching an eyebrow elegantly.

Yuuri opens his mouth to say how it’s not at all equivalent—there’s such a difference between them and their careers, but he doesn’t want to go through that conversation again.

“Okay,” he says instead, looking somewhere just to the left of Viktor.

There’s a long moment of silence, but eventually Viktor sighs and says, “Let’s get your skates on.”

The fluttering in Yuuri’s stomach surges, a tsunami of butterflies crashing against his ribs, but he nods. At Viktor’s gesture, he takes a seat on the bench, gingerly picking up one of the boots. He’s surprised at the heft of it—Viktor can _jump_ wearing these like they weigh nothing?

Numbly, Yuuri kicks off his shoes and tucks them under the bench. That done, he inspects the skate boot. It’s dark here, away from the bright overhead lights illuminating the ice, but he’s a little confused by the lack of evidence of wear on them—he guesses this rink must just take really good care of their rentals.

Gently loosening the laces, he slips on the first one—it’s a tight fit, but from his minimal understanding of skating, it’s supposed to be.

“Let me lace those up for you,” Viktor requests. “It’ll give you an idea of how they should feel when it’s done right.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says quietly, and slips on the other boot.

Viktor goes to one knee in front of him and takes the laces in hand, pulling them taut and crossing them through the hooks. The feeling of pressure increases, but it doesn’t hurt. To be fair, though, it’s a little hard to focus on his feet when Viktor is on his knees in front of Yuuri.

Quickly banishing that train of thought, Yuuri watches attentively as Viktor ties off the laces of the left boot and moves onto the right one, his hands deft and confident.

When he’s done, he stands up and asks, “How does that feel?”

“Tight?” Yuuri offers.

“Painfully so?” Viktor asks, a look of concern crossing his face.

“Not really,” Yuuri answers, and Viktor nods.

“Can you wiggle your toes?”

Yuuri tries it, then nods.

“Move your feet in the boots?”

Yuuri tries that too, then shakes his head no.

A satisfied grin and a nod are Viktor’s answer to that. “Sounds like they fit alright then. They’ll take a little while to break in, though—new skates are always uncomfortable and stiff at first.”

“I see,” Yuuri says, then stops as the words sink in. _New skates._ “Viktor?”

“Yes?” Viktor answers, tilting his head to the side guilelessly.

“These wouldn’t happen to be brand new skates, would they?”

“Shit,” Viktor mutters, blanching and looking away from Yuuri. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeats, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He covers his face with his hands, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, “You _did not_ buy me skates, did you?”

“Rental skates are _garbage,_ Yuuri,” Viktor says, sounding almost desperate. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Oh my god, you _did,_ ” Yuuri exclaims into dismay, still speaking into his hands. Half a second later he looks up, everything blurry because his glasses stayed in his hair, but the look of discomfort on Viktor’s face is plain enough despite that. “ _Why?_ ” he all but demands.

“I didn’t realize it would bother you this much,” Viktor says weakly.

Yuuri, unappeased, quickly answers back, “But you had to realize it would bother me at least a _little,_ or you wouldn’t have gone through the whole charade about getting rentals for me.” He punctuates the sentence by fixing his glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose and frowning.

Viktor opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, sighs, and closes it again. After another few seconds, he takes a deep breath and, squarely meeting Yuuri’s gaze, says, “Okay, yes, I _should_ have asked you,” He admits, brows drawing together. He looks slightly down, and adds in a smaller voice, “I knew you’d say no if I asked, though.”

Yuuri takes a moment to calm himself and sort through his feelings before replying. He’s upset, of course. Both that Viktor would go behind his back and that he’d try to cover it up. Skates are _expensive._ He couldn’t name an exact price, but he knows that much. He looks down at his feet, the black boots seeming to stare at him accusingly. Ah, that’s the other emotion: guilt.

Yuuri knows that he’s not rich. Far from it, in fact. He knows that Viktor can see it too. And he feels _guilty_ that his situation makes Viktor feel obligated to buy things for him. No matter _what_ he says about wanting to take care of his friends.

Viktor’s _already_ given Yuuri more than he’s really okay with, and this is just icing on the discomfort cake. The commission payment alone had been... something. Much more than he would have asked for, if he’d been told to name a price. It’s enough that he’ll be able to go home and visit his family for the first time in half a decade. That’s another thing he has to thank Viktor for, another thing he’s indebted to him for.

When Yuuri speaks again, his voice is quieter than usual. “I would have said no, and it would have been my right to do so.” He sighs, and runs his hand through his hair as his voice starts to shake. “I’m not going to make you send them back, but I’m _not_ happy. Not only that you did it, but that you lied about it. _Please_ don’t do that again.”

“Right,” Viktor agrees easily, sounding relieved that the heat has gone out of Yuuri’s voice. Still, he doesn’t quite meet Yuuri’s eyes when he says, “I’ll do my best to be completely honest with you from now on.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, swallowing to keep his voice steady. Despite being in the right—and he _knows_ he was—he still gets anxious about confronting people. Then, he almost wants to laugh. Not even two months ago he wouldn’t have even _considered_ calling Viktor out like that. Then, he’d still been Viktor Nikiforov, celebrity athlete to Yuuri. Not so much, anymore.

The silence almost has a chance to grow uncomfortable before Viktor says, “You know, I think you hold the world record for longest time between meeting me and losing your temper with me.”

He almost feels bad, but regardless, Yuuri has to chuckle at that. And just like that, the tension is lessened between them, and Yuuri’s anxiety ebbs some. This _had_ to show Viktor how uncomfortable he is with the constant gifts and offers—he just hadn’t gotten it before. In a way, Yuuri gets it: Viktor’s never _had_ to worry about money, has never had to pass up buying something he really wanted because he had bills to pay instead. But he has to understand, now. He peeks at Viktor’s face, and the expression seems to be one of genuine regret. Yuuri sighs softly. Yeah, surely he won’t do it again.

“Well, I guess that we should put them to use, since you went through the trouble of buying them,” he says at last, lifting one of his skates.

Viktor nods, apparently as eager to put their disagreement behind him as Yuuri is. But then he says, hesitantly, “I don’t know if it helps, but… I didn’t actually pay for them; they’re from my sponsor.”

“I doesn’t really,” Yuuri replies, though he keeps his voice neutral. Viktor grimaces, but doesn’t answer that.

“Come on, then,” Viktor says instead, after a long moment. turning to walk back toward the gate in the rink wall. While he takes the guards off his skates, Yuuri hesitantly gets up. He’d been nervous that he wouldn’t be able to balance on the blades, but the boots fit so snugly around his ankles that he can walk with relative ease.

Still, the nerves that had bled away just moments ago come rushing back full force as he approaches the ice. Viktor is waiting for him just a few feet inside the rink, and when Yuuri is on the threshold, he extends a black-gloved hand. Not demanding, not grabbing at him, just there should he need the support.

“I won’t let you fall,” Viktor says again. Yuuri nods, takes a deep breath to quell his anxious trembling, grabs hold of the wall, and steps onto the ice.

To his own surprise, he doesn’t fall immediately, though the way his foot slides with the slightest shift of his weight is unnerving.

Viktor is patient while Yuuri finds his balance, but after a moment he says, “Good. Now let go of the wall.” Yuuri looks at him in dismay, and it must show, because Viktor isn’t entirely successful in stifling his laugh. “You’ll be fine. Don’t lock your knees like that; you’ll be more stable if you let them bend a little.”

So Yuuri does, and he instantly feels his balance improve significantly. Hesitantly, he lets go of the wall, grinning slightly when he stays on his feet.

“Good,” Viktor remarks again, nodding. “Now come to me.”

There’s maybe a meter and a half between Yuuri and Viktor, but it seems like an insurmountable distance.

“Aren’t you, um,” Yuuri says haltingly, “Supposed to teach me how to move, first?”

Viktor does laugh then, light and short. Then he says, “According to the wikihow article I read this morning, the important thing is getting you to move however you can, so you can get a feel for the ice.”

“Wikihow article?” Yuuri repeats in disbelief.

Viktor laughs again, and this time there’s an edge of embarrassment to it. “I was four when I started skating,” he admits. “I don’t really… remember the process of learning how to do it.”

“Ah,” Yuuri replies with trepidation thick in his voice. He shouldn’t judge too harshly—he’d run into the same problem when he’d been thinking of how to teach Viktor to read music. It had been so long ago for him that it had become second nature. In the end he’d had to go to Leo for advice—Leo had mentioned at one point that he had taught his younger sister to read and play music.

“Come on, give it a try,” Viktor says brightly, like this isn’t simultaneously the most terrifying and potentially embarrassing thing Yuuri’s ever tried to do.

Still, he’s come this far. Giving up now would be even _more_ embarrassing than trying and failing. With that thought in mind, he tentatively takes a step, just like he would if he were walking in regular shoes. He’s well aware that it’s not the _correct_ way to skate, but he’s not remotely ready to try that.

He can’t balance on one blade for more than a split second, so he’s making tiny steps, an achingly slow progress, but he is moving forward.

He’s crossed about half of the distance when he missteps, catching the pointy bit at the front of the blade on the ice and gasping as he begins to topple forward, unable to regain his balance. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and braces for impact, but it doesn’t come.

“Sorry,” Viktor says, his voice startlingly close to Yuuri’s ear. “I should have warned you about the toe pick.” He’s got an arm wrapped securely around Yuuri’s torso, his shoulder supporting his weight. Yuuri had instinctively reached out for something to catch himself on, and has one hand fisted in fabric of Viktor’s shirt.

Once he’s become aware of the intimacy of their situation, Yuuri feels himself go bright red, all the blood that had drained out of his face when he’d started to lose his balance flooding back with a vengeance. This close, the woodsy-spicy scent of his cologne is all Yuuri can smell, and he goes lightheaded with it. Still, he’s not steady yet, so he clings for a moment longer until Viktor’s helped him enough that he can stand on his own two feet.

Shaking again, now with complete mortification as well as fear, Yuuri hesitantly says, “I’m impressed you could catch me without falling too.”

Viktor, gliding backwards to give Yuuri space, replies, “I’ve been doing this for a _long_ time. It takes a little more work than that to make me go down.”

He pauses and seems to understand the accidental innuendo in his word choice, but rather than blush and stammer like Yuuri would have, he just breathes a half-laugh and winks, owning it. That wink is almost enough to knock Yuuri off balance again.

“Here,” Viktor says after another second, and he pushes forward until he’s within arm’s reach again. “Take my hands; that might be a better way to do this.”

“Oh, uh,” Yuuri begins eloquently. “Okay.” Shyly, he extends his own hands and Viktor takes them in his gloved ones.

Very gently, Viktor pushes off, gliding backwards and pulling Yuuri with him. He takes a second to adjust to this, not letting the tug on his upper body destabilize him. Once he’s got that under control, he looks down, trying to watch Viktor’s feet to get an idea of what to do with his own.

“Keep your eyes up,” Viktor suggests, and then briefly explains how leaning over to see his feet can cause Yuuri to lose his balance. It’s easier said than done, though. Not only because he wants to see his feet, but because Viktor is just a little too close for comfort, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take watching his face, especially if he’s supposed to be skating, too. In the end, he settles for focusing on Viktor’s chin, which is as safe as he can get.

Viktor may be the top figure skater in the world, but he’s… not necessarily the best teacher, Yuuri finds himself thinking as the lesson progresses. He understands, honestly. Viktor’s likely never dealt with an absolute beginner before. Everyone he works with is a high-level skater, and he’s probably never had to think about _how_ to explain the basic mechanics of how to skate.

Still, he’s patient, never raises his voice, and is quick to praise Yuuri when he gets the hang of something, so despite everything else, Yuuri finds himself learning a good deal.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but eventually Viktor glances up at the clock on the wall behind Yuuri and says, “We should probably call it a night. Don’t want to overdo it. Your legs are probably going to hurt tomorrow as is.”

“Right,” Yuuri agrees, surprised at the reluctance he feels.

“Do you want to try to make it back to the gate on your own?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri nods. In response, Viktor lets go of Yuuri’s hands and skates back enough to give him some room. Yuuri takes a second to marvel at how _cold_ the rink is, without Viktor’s larger hands covering his own. He’d stopped noticing it a while ago.

Then, he focuses back in, takes a deep breath, and carefully begins to move toward the far side of the ice where the gate is, a little more than half the width of the rink away. He’s still wobbly, and his progress is slow, but he has a much better idea of how to move now than he had at the beginning of the lesson, gingerly turning his blade to push himself forward.

Viktor stays to his left, too far away to grab onto but close enough that he can catch Yuuri again if he needs to. He gives occasional reminders: eyes up, bend your knees, don’t lean back. Yuuri only loses his balance once, and though Viktor’s there in a flash to grab hold of his elbow, he thinks he might not have fallen regardless. It’s not much of an accomplishment, but it’s something he couldn’t have done this morning, and he’s inexplicably pleased by his progress.

When he finally steps off of the ice, Yuuri finds himself unexpectedly worn out, even though it’s only been – he looks at the clock to make sure – a little over an hour. Well, he had spent most of the lesson either terrified or horrifically embarrassed, so he figures it’s as much emotional exhaustion as physical.

Viktor is right behind him, slipping his skate guards on while Yuuri readjusts to walking on non-frozen ground.

“So,” Viktor says at last, “Was that good enough that you’ll come back next week?”

The tips of Yuuri’s ears go warm as he tries to process that, despite what must be _painfully_ bad skating from Viktor’s perspective, he still wants Yuuri to come back. “If you really don’t mind helping someone as bad as me,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, needing confirmation of the implied statement.

Viktor laughs too, though his sounds more baffled than anything else. “You’re not bad; you’re just a beginner,” Viktor says. “And you did better than I did my first time on the ice.”

“Do you even remember the first time you skated?” Yuuri asks, a teasing challenge mostly, but he’s also genuinely curious.

Viktor smiles a little nostalgically. “Not very well, but I _do_ remember that I fell and bruised my knee, and I cried so much that my nanny had to carry me back to the car.” He pauses, and something in the smile twists. “But the very next day I asked her to take me back. And the day after that. Within a week, I had my first coach.”

It’s hard to hear about how much he had loved skating once, knowing how little passion he has for it now. Yuuri winces and doesn’t push the subject, sorry he’d brought it up in the first place. “Well,” he says, changing the topic, “If you hadn’t been there to catch me I’m sure I would have bruised more than just my knee.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to let you fall,” Viktor says, perking back up some. “Adults don’t bounce the way kids do."

“In that case, thanks for sparing me the hospital trip,” Yuuri jokes weakly, but Viktor grins broadly and breathes a half-laugh.

“Of course; we can’t have that,” Viktor agrees, and goes to retrieve his skate bag from the nearby bench. Yuuri follows, and Viktor watches while he changes out of his skates.

Viktor shows him how to properly maintain the boots and blades, and sheepishly pulls out a new folded bag, and what he recognizes from the (twelve) wikipedia articles he read to be a pair of skate guards and a set of blue blade soakers, pushing them toward Yuuri.

Yuuri sighs heavily, but doesn’t protest the additional gift. He already raked Viktor over the coals, and it’s not like he _just_ went out and got these. But that mix of betrayal and… everything else does come flooding back for a moment. Taking a deep breath for calm, Yuuri puts his new skates away, already wondering how he’s going to explain the brand new pair of figure skates to Phichit.

“So, we’re still on for the piano lesson Wednesday?” Viktor asks, his voice almost too casual.

“I’m free if you are,” Yuuri confirms.

“Perfect,” Viktor says, looking down, but when Yuuri glances over he can see that there’s a smile on his face.

Yuuri is a little puzzled by this—but of course, it comes back to Viktor being stuck in a career he no longer has any enthusiasm for, doesn’t it? It must be nice to have something to look forward to that isn’t skating-related.

Belatedly, he wonders if these lessons are a burden on Viktor, and he winces again. They have to be. They’re at night, on Viktor’s only day off, taking time out of his already-busy schedule. Yuuri chews on his lip, considering this. Is it really fair to ask him to keep doing this? He’d offered, but…

Yuuri exhales, shaking his head. Viktor had offered, and he’d promised to be honest with Yuuri.

There’s still just a part of him that can’t believe that someone like Viktor Nikiforov would even _want_ to spend time with Yuuri, despite all evidence to the contrary. That part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Viktor to get bored with him and move on. After all, Viktor got what he needed from Yuuri. He looks directly at Viktor, who is in the process of untying his first boot.

To stop his thoughts from spiraling, Yuuri says, “This was the first time I’ve ever actually seen you skate in person.”

Viktor stops what he’s doing and looks up, an expression of surprise on his face. “It is, isn’t it? And here I didn’t even bother to show off.”

Yuuri laughs, thinking that he’s joking, but Viktor immediately starts lacing his boot back up.

“Oh, you really don’t have to—” Yuuri begins, but Viktor cuts him off.

“If anyone deserves a sneak peek of my program, it’s you,” he says, flashing a grin at Yuuri as he deftly threads the laces through the hooks.

“Oh, well. Okay,” Yuuri accedes, a thrill of excitement running through him. When he’d first walked in he’d watched Viktor skate lazy loops and patterns and it had been one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He can hardly imagine what it’ll be like to get to see him ‘show off.’

When the boot is tied to Viktor’s satisfaction, he stands up and goes back to the gate. Then, he hesitates and walks back over to Yuuri.

“Before I do, I wanted to ask you something,” Viktor says, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“Um, of course,” Yuuri says, trying to squash the anxiety those words always stir in him, regardless of who says them.

“The pieces you wrote for my program,” Viktor says, and sits down next to Yuuri, showing him his phone screen. It’s up on his music library, and there at the top are the two files Yuuri had given him, showing as SP_FINAL and FS_FINAL. “What are their names?” Viktor asks, nodding at the screen.

Yuuri blinks—that hadn’t been what he’d been expecting at all. “Well,” he answers honestly, “It’s _your_ music. You should get to name them.”

“Okay,” Viktor says, “But you must have had something in mind when you were writing them.”

“I did,” Yuuri admits, his voice small.

“Will you tell me? Please?” Viktor asks.

With a sigh, Yuuri relents. “I called the short program piece _Earnestly Yours._ ”

“That’s perfect,” Viktor breathes, and Yuuri glances over at his phone to see that he’s renaming it as he speaks. When he’s done, he looks back up at Yuuri expectantly.

“And I called the free skate program _Chasing Down an Anodyne._ ”

“I love it,” Viktor says brightly, “What’s an anodyne?”

Yuuri laughs lightly, and when it becomes clear that Viktor is asking sincerely he answers, “An anodyne is anything that lessens pain.”

“I love it,” Viktor says again, more softly this time, his expression going thoughtful. When Yuuri looks down, he’s changing the title of that one, too. “Will you start the music for me?” Viktor asks, once he’s saved the change. Pointing, he adds, “The sound system controls are over there.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says, accepting the phone when Viktor passes it to him. “Which one?”

“The short program piece,” Viktor says, getting up to go back to the gate, “ _Earnestly Yours._ ”

“Okay,” Yuuri replies, and goes to the control box while Viktor heads to the gate.

Viktor takes off his guards and glides to the approximate center of the ice, turning and looking at Yuuri. Their eyes meet, and Viktor nods.

Yuuri starts the track, and he guesses the sound travels well enough, because as soon as the first notes play, Viktor strikes a pose. He moves his arms in an elegant gesture that manages to encompass all the longing that Yuuri wrote into this piece. Then as the music picks up, Viktor moves, skating backwards, his feet crossing as he flows across the ice. The lines of his body echo the lines in the song, his movements growing bolder as the harmonies grow denser and the percussion kicks in.

Throughout it, he keeps using his arms to emote, throwing them out like he’s reaching desperately for something, meeting Yuuri’s gaze when he does. It’s enough to get Yuuri’s heart racing—he can imagine the reaction the crowds and judges will have to that.

God, he’s beautiful when he skates. Seeing him like this, it’s almost hard to believe that Viktor doesn’t feel anything when he performs—he fakes it so well.

At the climax of the piece, Viktor goes into a jump. Yuuri doesn’t know enough about figure skating to tell which one, but he counts three rotations, and can’t help but to applaud when Viktor lands it perfectly.

Viktor breaks character then, a grin cracking his face, and he skates back over even though there’s still some time left in the piece. Seeing that the performance is over, Yuuri goes ahead and hits _pause_ on the track.

“Or something like that,” Viktor says once he’s within easy speaking distance of Yuuri. “Well, to be frank, not really; that was mostly improvised. The real program is still a work in progress. Obviously the finished routine will have a lot more...” he trails off, and makes a gesture. “A lot more,” he repeats, this time with an air of finality.

“That was impressive enough as is,” Yuuri breathes. “Wow.” Now that he’s had exactly one skating lesson, he has a brand new appreciation for how _hard_ the sport is. But when Viktor does it, it looks as natural as breathing. Again, he’s struck with the cognitive dissonance of trying to reconcile his knowledge that Viktor has lost his passion with the fact that he can skate _like that._

Possibly blushing, but more likely just flushed from the exertion, Viktor laughs off the compliment and goes over to the gate. Yuuri watches as he knocks the ice off os his blades and puts his guards on, and they both walk back over to the bench. Viktor sits and starts to untie his boots—for real, this time.

“Um, so, same time next week, right?” Yuuri asks into the quiet.

Viktor looks at him for a moment, a pleased expression on his face. “If you’re up for it, absolutely,” he says. “I’ll have you doing jumps in no time.”

Yuuri laughs nervously, and says, “I’m sure you’ll be playing Chopin from memory before I manage any jumps.”

“Well, I guess I’d better do some practicing,” Viktor retorts as he finishes cleaning and drying his skates, puts them away and zips up his bag.

When they’re both ready to go, Viktor asks, “Can I give you a ride home?”

Yuuri looks at him, a shade of his earlier annoyance with Viktor returning. “You live five minutes from here; it would be _very_ out of your way.”

Grimacing, Viktor quickly says, “I know, but… It’s dark and I just want to be sure you get home safe.”

It’s a solid excuse, but Yuuri chuckles nonetheless, and the irritation fades back into the background. “I lived in New York for four years. I’ll be alright taking the bus home.”

“Okay,” Viktor acquiesces, though he sounds like he’s doing so reluctantly. They walk to the front door of the rink in silence, Victor flipping the lights off as they go. Outside, he locks the door as well and pockets the key.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, then?” Viktor asks, turning to face Yuuri. “At my place?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Wednesday.”

Viktor smiles at that, and wishes him goodnight. Yuuri returns the greeting, and they go their separate ways, Yuuri down to the bus stop and Viktor up the hill to his apartment.

Yuuri is almost at the stop near his apartment when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He shifts the weight of his skate bag and pulls it out. There’s a new message from Viktor.

‘ _I really did have fun tonight. Can’t wait to do it again. <3’_

His heart pounds in his chest as he reads and re-reads the text. Friendship is the most he can hope for from Viktor, and the fact that he apparently wants _that_ much from Yuuri is something he’s still having a hard time wrapping his head around.

But he thinks back to the preview of Viktor’s program, and the way he’d reached for Yuuri from across the ice, every motion of his body expressing yearning, and meeting Yuuri’s eyes while he did it… He was amazing, and Yuuri has to marvel at how, in two short weeks of choreography and practice, Viktor had taken his music and breathed life and form into it.

In those moments, with Viktor looking at him with such palpable longing… Yuuri knows it was a performance. But it had been so easy to believe, and so hard not to fall a little more for him.

‘ _Yeah, me too,’_ Yuuri finally types. He stares at the screen, feeling like he should say more than that. _‘I’m looking forward to seeing the full program next month, too_ ,’ he adds at length, and hits send before he can overthink it.

Viktor’s reply comes quickly: _‘I’m looking forward to getting to show it to you! Good night, Yuuri. <3’_

‘ _Good night, Viktor,’_ Yuuri answers, resisting the impulse to add a heart emoji of his own.

He’s so wrapped up in thoughts of Viktor that he nearly misses his stop, having to rush for the doors just as the bus driver is reaching to close them. He quickly apologizes and thanks her, and then walks the block down to his apartment.

Opening his front door, Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief that Phichit isn’t in the living room—now is _not_ the time he wants to have to explain the skates—and goes on through to his own room, setting the bag down gently just inside his door.

He flops onto his bed still fully dressed. He intends to just take a moment to decompress, but he finds that almost as soon as his head hits the pillow he can barely keep his eyes open. He has just enough presence of mind to plug his phone in and take off his glasses before sleep starts to overtake him.

That night, he dreams of Viktor skating to his music in an otherwise empty ice rink. Not the pieces he’d written for the program, but something illusory and delicate, something he won’t be able to recreate when he’s awake, though he’ll try for weeks to come. The dream ends when the music slows, and Viktor skates to the wall where Yuuri watches, leans over it, and kisses him.

When he wakes up, his first thought is, _‘shit.’._

There’s really no going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me!! I really appreciate the feedback. Like, so much. I had a really rough week and reading through y'all's comments really improved my mood like 200%.
> 
> So with this chapter, I'm afraid we've Officially reached the end of what I had pre-written, and from now on the chapters are going to have to be posted as they're written. That's going to slow down the schedule pretty significantly, I'm afraid. I'll get them done as quickly as I feasibly can but (not to complain, just an explanation) I have 2 jobs, I co-run a DND campaign that I have to spend a lot of time writing quests for, and I spend a good deal of time learning ice skating myself (guess who's about to graduate from the adult 2/3 class and finally get to start learning the fun stuff! it's ya boy, Rowan). So please bear with me; I sincerely apologize in advance for the wait.
> 
> EDIT: oh my god i cannot believe myself. i accidentally posted the un-beta'd version of this earlier. if you're rereading this and notice some slight changes THAT'S WHY SORRY


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hey. Sorry it's been three months. Anyway, here's chapter 10.

_**(Late April, 2016)** _

 

“You know,” Phichit says, his voice tinny over the phone speaker, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was some sort of bizarre pickup line.”

Viktor half-laughs in disbelief and replies, “You get strange men asking you to tune their pianos often?”

“It’s not the worst one I’ve gotten,” Phichit admits, and chuckles too. “But anyway,” he continues, “Given that I, at least, can tell how _ridiculously_ into Yuuri you are, I can only assume you meant it literally?”

“Is it that obvious?” Viktor asks in dismay. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny it. For the first time, he wonders if getting Phichit’s number to ask this favor of him was a mistake—Yuuri and Phichit are close. He’s probably talked to him about Viktor, and how he’d had to turn him down.

“To everyone _except_ Yuuri, I’m sure,” Phichit mutters. “Gotta cut off this conversation, though. He just got out of the shower and I don’t want him to overhear. Paper-thin walls, you know?”

“Right,” Viktor agrees blandly, the first part of Phichit’s reply forgotten in his preoccupation with the last part. Yuuri, his skin flushed and damp, his hair dripping beads of water that trail down his neck, his chest, his thighs… How intoxicating it would be to put his hands, his mouth on that smooth expanse of pale brown skin, to tangle his fingers in still-wet hair.

With an effort, Viktor banishes the image from his mind. He has to leave for practice in just a few minutes; this isn’t what he needs to be thinking about now that he’s seriously working on his choreography for his last season, and he knows if he doesn’t shut this train of thought down early, he’s not going to be able to _stop_ thinking about it. And anyway, Phichit is talking again, and he’s already missed a good chunk of it.

“Sorry,” he interrupts, “What was that? I was distracted.”

“Uh-huh,” Phichit replies, sounding amused. “I’ll bet. Anyway, I was just saying that I can definitely come by sometime and tune your piano.”

“That _does_ sound like a euphemism, now that I’ve heard _you_ say it,” Viktor admits, and Phichit laughs lightly.

“Tune your piano _l_ _iterally,_ ” Phichit clarifies needlessly. “Did you have a particular time in mind?”

“Would you be able to come by sometime today or tomorrow? I know it’s short notice, but I forgot to call you last week.”

Phichit _hms_ for a moment, and says, “It’ll be tough since this is finals week, but I could come by after eight tonight? My study group should be done by then.”

“That’ll be perfect,” Viktor says with a sigh of relief and a tinge of guilt—he doesn’t want to see Yuuri wince at how out of tune his piano is again, but he’s heard stories about how rough university finals can be. “You need my address?”

“Yeah, if you wanna text it to me sometime this morning that would be great.”

“Will do. And thanks,” Viktor says.

“No problem; see you this evening,” Phichit says, and they both hang up.

Well, that’s one of his goals for today taken care of. He quickly sends his address to Phichit before he forgets. Then, he pats Makkachin and tells her goodbye, picks up his skate bag and walks down to the rink.

It’s almost completely empty this afternoon. This is one of the times Yakov has worked out with the owners of the rink, giving his students a few hours of private practice without having to dodge too many other skaters on the ice. Viktor glances around, and it looks like Georgi is the only one to have beaten him here.

Viktor waves perfunctorily at first him and then Yakov, and finds a spot on one of the benches near the gate. He takes a couple of minutes to stretch, and when his muscles feel warm and loose he sits down to put on his skates.

That done, Viktor fishes his earphones out of his skate bag, plugs them into his phone, and queues up his program music, setting the short program piece to play on repeat. The words _Earnestly Yours_ scroll across the screen of his phone, and he smiles. He hadn’t had a clue what to call either of the pieces, but the names Yuuri had had for them are absolutely perfect. He’s glad he asked.

Letting the music play, he skates a few laps to finish warming up. He focuses in on the music, barely paying attention to his surroundings, just barely aware enough to watch over his shoulder as he pivots on one blade and finishes the lap skating backwards. He’s focused in on the music playing in his ears. He has a rough outline of the choreography, but there’s a lot of detail left to fill in: exactly which technical elements and where, how to maximize program score without sacrificing the _feeling_ of the piece.

He spends the next part of practice trying out different combinations, rewinding the music when he needs to nail something down. At some point, Mila and Yuri arrive and begin their own practice. He notices this somewhat absently. Mila and Georgi are working on their own choreography, and Yuri is being helped by Yakov’s ex-wife.

Occasionally, Yakov will call out a directive to Viktor, but mostly he just lets him work. He has to have the short program finished prior to the exhibition at the end of May, but there’s no point in fine-tuning a performance before the routine is even complete. And anyway, Yakov knows that, at least when it comes to choreographing his program, Viktor is just as likely to smile, nod, and ignore his suggestions as he is to take them. That’s a fight they’d both stopped bothering with years ago.

Viktor skates over to the rail and picks up his water bottle, taking a quick break to catch his breath and consider. There’s a part about halfway through the piece where the music swells dramatically, a dissonant, tense chord. He wants to put something dramatic there, something equal to the raw emotion in the music.

There’s an idea he’s been idly toying with, something that will definitely make the statement he’s trying to. The question is whether or not he can even do it. But Viktor feels _good_ today. He’s in great physical form, nailing all the elements he’s been working on this morning. But more importantly, his head is in a good place at present. Better than it’s been in a while. He smiles softly down at his water bottle, and thinks that he probably has his late night with Yuuri to thank for that. Even if he had gotten upset about the skates, well… it had been worth it.

Anyway, the why is beside the point. Viktor is in rare form today, even for him. He’s on fire. He can do it, he thinks.

With that thought, he sets his water bottle back down and heads back out onto the ice, getting up to speed while the music plays in his ears. And...here. He launches himself into the air, going for as powerful a jump as he’s ever managed, a faster, tighter rotation. There’s a second where he thinks he might actually pull this off, but… no. Viktor misses the landing and goes down, landing hard enough that he’s momentarily stunned.

“Vitya, what the fuck?” Yakov yells as Viktor pushes himself back up. “Get over here,” he demands. “I haven’t seen you over-rotate an axel like that since you were a teenager.”

Grimacing, Viktor does as ordered, pointedly ignoring the looks he’s getting from his rink-mates. He takes his earphones out as he approaches Yakov, trying not to look like he’s feeling the aftershocks of his impact against the ice too much.

“What are the three of you gawking at? Get back to work,” Yakov shouts at the others, who quickly go to obey. They do, and Yakov turns back to Viktor. His voice is still irate, but he pitches it down so that no one can overhear. “What the hell was that, Vitya? Don’t think I couldn’t see what you were trying to pull, there.”

“I can do it, Yakov,” Viktor says, his voice intense. “I didn’t get it right this time, but I can do it.”

Yakov shakes his head. “There’s a _reason_ no one has ever landed a quad axel. I don’t want to see you get a career-ending injury during your last season.”

Viktor, not remotely chastened, insists, “If not now, then when? If I do hurt myself, it’ll only be cutting months off my career, not years. But that’s not the point. I can _do_ it, Yakov.” He pauses, runs a gloved hand through his disheveled hair. “Or, at least… I _will_ be able to do it.”

Yakov shakes his head again, sighing. “I can tell I’m not going to be able to talk you out of attempting it, at least. But promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“At least _try_ to be safe? Retirement or not, I don’t want to have to drive you to the hospital after you break your knee. I hate hospitals.”

Viktor snorts. That’s as close as the old man ever comes to admitting that he cares about him. “I’ll be careful, Yakov,” Viktor says. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Too late for that,” Yakov mutters, almost inaudible.

“Sorry, what was that?” Viktor teases him.

“I said get back to work,” Yakov replies with a scowl.

So Viktor does. He doesn’t attempt another quad axel that day. Instead, he focuses on putting together a program worthy of the music Yuuri wrote for him. But it’s there, in the back of his mind. There are things he’ll need to change, to work on over the coming months. But he’s sure that, with enough practice, he _can_ land it.

And for the first time in a long time, he looks forward to the challenge.

When it’s time to pack up and leave, Viktor thinks he has a good idea of what the short program is going to look like. It still needs some work, but he’ll definitely have something to present at the exhibition. He pauses, halfway through taking off his skates. When was the last time that he care this much about impressing the crowd at an exhibition?

 _Not the crowd,_ his heart insists, _just Yuuri._ Viktor sighs at this thought, and finishes getting ready to head home.

When he gets there and greets Makkachin at the door, it’s with just enough time to take her for a walk and shower before Phichit is supposed to get there. So he does, and then with the last few minutes he has remaining, Viktor gives his apartment a quick cleaning. He’s less concerned about Phichit seeing his apartment when it’s a mess than he is Yuuri, but he does make a cursory effort. The two of them are best friends, after all. He’d be pretty embarrassed if Phichit were to go home and tell Yuuri what a slob he thinks Viktor is.

He’s putting up the last of the clean dishes when there’s a knock on the door. Makkachin woofs softly at the noise and trots ahead of Viktor when he goes to answer it. Phichit shifts his bag and waves brightly with his free hand once the door’s open.

“Hi!” Viktor says, “Thanks for stopping by on such short notice, come on in.”

“Happy to help,” Phichit replies, and steps inside, nudging the door behind him and slipping off his shoes. Curious despite looking almost disappointed, Makkachin steps up and begind giving Phichit a thorough sniff.

“Uh...hello,” he says to her, standing stock still. He doesn’t appear to be nervous or frightened of her, just not quite sure how to behave. Nevertheless, Viktor supposes it would be more polite to call her off; Phichit clearly isn’t the dog lover that Yuuri is. He tries not to let this affect his opinion of him.

“Come on, Makka,” Viktor says authoritatively, “Leave our guest alone.”

Without a fuss, she disengages and hops up on the couch, where she sprawls out with a long suffering sigh. Viktor smiles sadly in her direction. Clearly she’s come to expect Yuuri whenever there’s a knock on the door.

Turning back to Phichit, Viktor says, “Sorry about her. Please, make yourself at home. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“She’s fine,” Phichit responds. “Some water would be nice?”

“Of course,” Viktor says, and goes into the kitchen to oblige. While he does, Phichit takes a look around the living room, and whistles lowly.

“This is super nice,” he comments, and Viktor chuckles softly, turning off the tap.

“Thank you,” he replies, taking the filled glass over to Phichit, who accepts it and takes a few deep gulps.

“It’s great to finally meet you in person,” Viktor comments after a moment has passed.

Phichit laughs into the water and has to take it away from his face, setting it down on the coffee table a moment later. “You know, when you messaged me this morning and told me you wanted to meet up, this is _not_ what I expected.”

Viktor’s a little bit afraid to ask what he _did_ expect. Instead, he shrugs and says, “I promised Yuuri I’d get it tuned before he comes over this week, and you’re the only one I know who can do that.”

“Surely it’s not _that_ bad,” Phichit says, already wandering off to where the piano is set up. Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he presses down a few keys and visibly flinches. “Okay, never mind,” he amends. “It sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He turns back to Viktor and says, “I’ll need to move it away from the wall; is that alright?”

Viktor nods and says, “Whatever you need; you’re the expert. Need any help?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Phichit answers, setting his bag down on the floor out of the way.

Viktor goes over to where it is, and following Phichit’s directions, they get the piano moved so that there’s plenty of room to open up the back and work. Which is exactly what he does, pulling a series of inscrutable tools out of the bag he’d brought with him and scattering them around his working area.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Viktor asks. “Or should I just stay out of your way?”

“It’s kind of a one-person job,” Phichit says, poking his head around the side of the piano to grin apologetically at Viktor. “But I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

“Fair enough,” Viktor agrees easily, retreating back to the couch with Makkachin. He unlocks his phone and thumbs idly through his social media and looking up occasionally at the incomprehensible sounds coming from his piano.

He’d like to talk to Phichit. He’s deeply curious about Yuuri’s charming, sociable best friend. But he restrains himself—he doesn’t know if this is the kind of work someone can talk while doing, or if it requires silence.

That question gets answered soon enough, though.

“ _Severely_ neglected tuning aside, this is a gorgeous instrument,” Phichit says, “It’s old, but all the moving parts are still in really good shape. How did a pro skater end up with something like this?”

Viktor laughs softly, and briefly explains how his great-aunt had left it to him (probably by mistake) in her will.

Phichit laughs, so Viktor turns the conversation, asking, “Do all piano students learn how to tune them?”

“God no,” Phichit answers, “It’s _very_ uncommon. As far as I know, I’m the only student at the conservatory who knows how.”

“Why did you bother learning, then?” Viktor asks.

At that, Phichit’s torso emerges from behind the piano, and he gestures expansively as he begins to speak. “Imagine,” he says, “I’m the featured pianist with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. But the piano is out of tune, and the concert is in two hours. The professional tuner is stuck in traffic and can’t make it on time. ‘We’ll have to cancel the performance,’ says the conductor. ‘But wait! Maybe that brilliant and very handsome pianist can save us!’ And that’s how I swoop in and save the performance, changing the audience’s lives forever.”

Viktor chuckles softly, marveling at the difference between Phichit and Yuuri. One’s all quiet and reserve, a fragile porcelain shell over a core of iron. The other is bright energy and showmanship, the kind of confidence that comes with skill. “How likely is that to happen?” he asks at last.

“That specific scenario, or my playing with a major symphony orchestra?” Phichit asks in turn, disappearing behind the piano again.

“Both,” Viktor says decisively.

“Mm, the situation is pretty improbable, but it never hurts to be prepared. As for the other part, I _will_ be a renowned concert pianist one day, so I consider it likely,” Phichit says. There’s no braggadocio in his voice, only surety.

“From what I’ve heard, I believe you,” Viktor says easily. He knows that Phichit is the one who recorded the piano lines in his program music at Yuuri’s request. Should he thank him for that?

“I’ll be the first world-famous pianist from Thailand,” Phichit goes on, and even though he’s hidden on the other side of the instrument, Viktor can hear the fierce smile in his words.

He echoes it with one of his own, thought it’s tinged with sadness. Phichit isn’t unlike how Viktor himself was when he’d been 20 years old, about to compete in his first winter Olympics. How ready he’d been to take the world by storm, then. And how he had.

Performing had felt so _good,_ years ago. Viktor desperately hopes that Phichit has better luck living his dreams than he himself has.

Pushing the moment of self-pity aside, Viktor simply says, “I believe you.” And truly, he does.

Phichit goes quiet after that for a while, apparently needing to focus on his work, so Viktor grabs his tablet from where it had been charging, idly flipping through his social media feeds to entertain himself. When Makkachin hops up on the couch beside him, shoving her nose under his arm for attention, he sets the device aside and instead buries his fingers in her fur. Her eyes go half-lidded as she basks in his attention, and he smiles and presses a kiss onto her forehead.

She settles against his chest and appears to go to sleep, though her eyes pop open every time Viktor moves or has the audacity to stop stroking her back.

Makkachin looks up a second before Viktor hears Phichit stand up from his place behind the piano. He raises his own eyes and sees him brushing the dust off his pants.

“Done already? That was quick,” Viktor comments.

Phichit chuckles lightly and says, “Not quite. Well, not even _close,_ actually. Just need a quick break.”

“Can I get you anything?” Viktor asks, sitting up a little straighter.

“Nah,” Phichit says, and walks over to where he’d left his cup of water earlier. He picks it up and takes a sip, and to Viktor, appears to be dithering about something.

After a long moment, Phichit sets his water back down. He shifts from one foot to the other, and Viktor observes, trying not to look like he’s staring. He’s used to this kind of nervous energy from Yuuri, but it seems odd coming from Phichit.

“So, you’re teaching Yuuri to skate?” Phichit says at last.

“Mm-hm,” Viktor answers, unsure of where Phichit is going with this. “It only seemed fair, after he offered to teach me to play.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Phichit says quickly. “In fact, I’m really glad you did; he seemed really excited about it.”

“I’m...glad,” Viktor replies dumbly. It’s true, though. He doubts himself in his ability to read Yuuri; there had been a sliver of doubt about that. But that’s clearly not all Phichit wants to say.

Shifting uncomfortably again, Phichit begins, “I know it’s not really any of my business, but...it’s about the skates you got him.”

Viktor grimaces. Yeah, that.

“That _really_ bothered him,” Phichit goes on. “He tried to act like it was no big deal but I know him better than that.”

Viktor sighs and pushes his hair out of his eyes with his one hand, burying the fingers of his other one in Makkachin’s fur. “I know. I messed up, there. He, uh, he really took me to task over that.”

“Oh,” Phichit says in surprise and… relief? “That’s, uh, news to me.”

“Yeah,” Viktor agrees blandly. Makkachin, seeming to sense his discomfort, raises her head to lick his chin. He scratches behind her ears in gratitude.

“Well, that makes my best friend duty of scolding you a lot easier since he already did it,” Phichit says in a weak attempt at humor. When Viktor doesn’t laugh, just smiles painfully, he goes on. “I’m a little surprised though, you know? That he _would_ do that. Yuuri isn’t very… good with confrontation, and I know he really admires you.”

Viktor looks up at that. “He does?”

“Is it not obvious?” Phichit says, punctuating it with another light laugh.

This time, Viktor returns it. “I have trouble reading him,” he admits. He hesitates before speaking again, and fiddles with Makkachin’s collar to stall. He isn’t sure if he should bring it up again, but… This _is_ a rare opportunity he has, to be able to talk to Yuuri’s best friend in private. Finally, he asks, “To be completely honest, I don’t really understand what it was about the whole thing that upset him so much. I mean, yes, I lied to him and that was... pretty shitty of me in retrospect, I get that now. But the other part.”

Phichit _hmms_ softly, and takes another drink of his water. At length, he says, “You’ve never _not_ had money, right?”

“That’s right,” Viktor confirms. It’s completely true, too. He may not be close to his family, but they’re well off, and even before he started getting contracts and sponsors, from a material standpoint he’d never wanted for anything.

“Me neither,” says Phichit, “So getting an relatively pricey gift wouldn’t really bother me. It would be easy enough for me to return the favor, you know?”

“Okay,” Viktor says, thinking that he might be starting to get an idea of where Phichit is going with this.

“But it’s not really the same with Yuuri,” Phichit says. “It took me a little while to figure this out when we’d first become friends, too. He doesn’t mind the occasional little thing, like being treated to dinner every now and then, but anything more than that and he feels like he… owes you. Like you’re not equal in the friendship.” He makes a face. “That’s a bad way of describing it, but you get what I mean.”

Viktor blinks, nods absently, and considers this. He thinks he can understand the line of reasoning Phichit described, though he doesn’t fully follow it. He never expected anything in return from Yuuri—as far as he’s concerned, there are no debts between them. That’s the whole point of a _gift._

Well, even if he doesn’t really get it, he knows better than to try it again. All he really _needs_ to understand is that it upset Yuuri, and he doesn’t want to do that again. So no more gifts without making sure it’s alright, first. That’s easy enough. He can do that.

“All right, that makes sense,” Viktor says at length, even though it’s not really true. Phichit looks skeptical, but doesn’t comment.

He drains the last of the water from his glass and makes a gesture with it, pointing toward the kitchen and tilting his head questioningly, asking if he should put it away. Viktor shakes his head in reply and waves dismissively at the coffee table to let him know that he’ll deal with it later, so Phichit sets the glass down there.

“I should get back to work,” he says, “But before I do...” He trails off.

“Yes?” Viktor asks after the silence has a chance to grow long.

Phichit laughs awkwardly, and says, “This _really_ isn’t my place, but I am a notorious busybody, so I _have_ to say something.”

“Go on,” Viktor says with trepidation, subtly hugging Makkachin closer against his chest.

“You mentioned that you have trouble reading Yuuri?” Phichit asks, and when Viktor nods confirmation, he goes on. “Is that why you haven’t asked him out, yet?”

Viktor forces a smile and locks his face in the expression. It’s a trick that’s helped him look charming and pleasant through countless interviews. “I have, actually,” he admits once he’s certain the mask is in place. “He turned me down.”

A furrow grows between Phichit’s brows, and he says, almost to himself, “That doesn’t sound right...I’ll have to talk to him about that.”

“Please don’t,” Viktor requests. “It’s fine.”

“I,” Phihit says, then closes his mouth. “Huh. I honestly had no idea. Sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s fine. Really not a big deal,” Viktor says again. “Anyway, I should take Makkachin out; she probably needs a walk.” It’s a thin excuse. Makkachin seems like she’d be perfectly happy to lounge against Viktor’s chest all night, though her ears do perk up at the sound of her name and ‘out.’ But there’s _no way_ he wants to continue this conversation, not when he’s almost certain that Phichit will tell Yuuri about it, whatever he says to the contrary.

As he levers himself up off the couch, he takes a moment to wonder what it would be like to have a friend he wanted to share everything with. Yuuri’s really the closest thing he’s got. Makkachin huffs as he slides out from under her, and Viktor looks down to see her reluctantly hopping down off the couch to follow. Well, there’s always her. Makkachin is a great listener, though her conversation skills leave a little to be desired.

Viktor grabs the empty glass from the table and takes it over to the kitchen sink. As he does, he says, “I shouldn’t be long, but help yourself to anything you need while I’m out.”

“Okay, thanks,” Phichit says, looking almost as relieved that the conversation is at an end as Viktor is.

Patting his leg, he summons Makkachin over to the door and opens it to let them both out. Rather than running for the stairs, Makkachin sticks close to his side and nudges up under his hand. He’s grateful for the small comfort, and knots his fingers in her soft fur briefly.

There’s a part of him that’s glad that Yuuri has a friend that so clearly cares for his happiness and general well-being. The other part, however, could live without getting the third degree. Even as mild and good-natured at this one was.

The night air is cool against his skin and blissfully silent as he takes Makkachin downstairs and on a quick walk around the apartment building so she can do her business.

By the time he makes it back up to his door, the lingering traces of discomfort and embarrassment have been dulled, and he’s able to put on a pleasant air that’s almost genuine. It is, after all, really hard to dislike Phichit. And Viktor has had a lot of practice ignoring negative emotions, anyway.

When he lets himself back inside, Phichit peers from around the back of the paino and waves.

“How’s it going?” Viktor asks.

“Getting there,” Phichit answers. “It’s taking a bit longer since it’s been so long. If you get this done about once a year it’s a much quicker process.” There’s no admonishment in the statement, just a friendly tip.

“Duly noted,” Viktor says, despite knowing full well that the only way he’ll remember to do that is if someone reminds him. It’s the kind of thing that always slips his mind.

Where will he be a year from now, anyway? The uncertainty is thrilling, if a little intimidating.

After getting himself a glass of water, Viktor settles back in on the couch and opens up an ebook on his tablet. He has trouble focusing on the words—always has, especially these past few years, but tonight it’s because his attention is split between the screen and the sounds coming from his piano.

He’s on the verge of giving up on trying to read when there’s a shifting from Phichit that has a sense of finality to it. Viktor looks up and sees him get up from the floor, dusting his knees off as he does so.

He glances over and sees Viktor looking, so he grins and says, “I think that should do it. Mind if I give her a test run?”

“By all means,” Viktor agrees, and Phichit nods and takes a seat in front of the piano.

Without preamble or hesitation, he launches into a piece that sounds vaguely familiar, though Viktor couldn’t for the life of him put a name to it. Maybe one of his competitors skated to it in the past? He’s not sure. Either way, the difference in sound is audible even to his untrained ear. The chords sound brighter and more resonant, lacking the dissonant undertones he’d been hearing before.

Coming to a stop, Phichit looks over his shoulder and asks, “Much better, yeah?”

“For sure,” Viktor agrees, and gets up to help Phichit fit the back panel back on and move the piano back to its spot against the wall.

When everything is back in place, Viktor asks, “How much do I owe you?”

Phichit looks a little startled at the question, but after a second he recovers and answers, “No charge this time.” He grins sheepishly. “I had been hoping for a chance to talk to you, anyway.”

Viktor grins back automatically. To be completely honest, so had he. “Still,” he says with a shrug. “It sounded like it was a lot of work. You sure I can’t compensate you for it?”

Phichit shrugs too and says, “You can pay me by not letting it get that bad again. That really is a gorgeous instrument.” He chuckles, and Viktor echoes that also.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he acquiesces. “I really do appreciate the help.”

“It’s no problem,” Phichit replies. “Now, not that I wouldn’t relish the opportunity to chat some more, but I should probably get back home. Early class tomorrow, you know?”

“Right,” Viktor agrees easily. “Should I call you a cab?”

He mentally kicks himself as soon as the instinctive offer comes out of his mouth, but Phichit isn’t Yuuri, and simply answers, “That would be nice, if you don’t mind.”

So Viktor does, and within minutes there’s a car pulling up to the curb outside the building. He bids Phichit farewell, thanks him again, and closes the door behind him.

Tonight has been a bit of a mixed bag, but an enlightening one, if nothing else. It wasn’t easy to get a real sense of who Phichit is from his social media and a few brief messages, and Viktor is glad to have had the opportunity to meet him. He can see why Yuuri is so fond of him.

A small grin creeps over his face as another thought crosses his mind. He can’t _wait_ to see the look of surprise and relief on Yuuri’s face when he finds the piano freshly tuned.

Yeah, that will absolutely make any minor discomfort have been worth it.

-

Finals week.

Once upon a time, those words had been enough to strike mortal terror into Yuuri’s heart, but now that he’s in graduate school, they instill a similar but distinct kind of anxiety in him.

It’s not so much that he has to frantically study to make sure he knows everything that might be on a test, not anymore. Now he has projects to be turned in and judged by his professors. It’s one thing to get a question on an exam wrong, but entirely another to spend weeks or months pouring his soul into his compositions and serve them up for criticism.

Not that he hadn’t had to do that in undergrad too, but the stakes seem higher now. Either way, he’s been so busy putting the finishing touches on the projects he has to turn in throughout the week that he’s hardly had a moment to sit and breathe, let alone eat or sleep.

It hadn’t been until he’d gotten on the bus to go back home from the conservatory that he’d remembered that tonight is when he’s supposed to meet Viktor for a piano lesson. He pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and rubs his eyes, resisting the urge to groan. He’s going to go, of course—he’d promised that he would, and he _does_ want to but… well, this is the first day all week that he’s more or less caught up on his projects, and he’d been looking forward to going to bed on time. Or, more honestly, a few hours early.

Still, a promise is a promise—and he’s also worried that if he cancels, Viktor will think he’s still mad. Which he’s not anymore… not really. At least, not as long as he doesn’t do anything like that again. Everyone makes mistakes.

So, when he gets home, he stows his school stuff away in his room and goes to the kitchen to fix himself a quick dinner before going back to the bus station.

It’s just as he’s popped the container of leftovers into the microwave to warm them up that the front door opens again. It’s Phichit this time, and he looks as tired as Yuuri feels. Yuuri blinks half in surprise to see him—this is this first time they’ve seen each other all week, isn’t it? Their schedules haven’t lined up at all. And Yuuri’s habit of locking himself in his bedroom to perfect his compositions hasn’t helped either.

“Hey,” Phichit says.

“Hey,” Yuuri replies.

A second passes while they maintain eye contact, and they both laugh at the blandness of the conversation thus far.

“How’s it going?” Phichit asks, setting his messenger bag down just inside the door and loudly popping his neck. “Surviving?”

“It’s going. Surviving is a good way to put it,” Yuuri answers. “How about you?”

“Theory test today—hope I did alright,” Phichit says in reply. He opens up the fridge to scrounge up a dinner of his own.

“I’m sure you did fine,” Yuuri assures him. “All the times I quizzed you for that class, you had it down.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Phichit says, pulling out his own container of leftovers. “Man, I don’t know how you keep all this stuff in mind when you’re writing music. I’d much rather just play it.”

“I don’t really think about all the rules when I’m writing, to be honest,” Yuuri answers as the microwave dings and he takes out his bowl and gives the contents a stir. “I just write what sounds good, you know?”

Phichit laughs under his breath and replies, “Either way, I’m happy to leave that part to you.”

Yuuri laughs too, and moves aside to give Phichit access to the microwave. “And I wish I could play with as much confidence as you do.”

Again, Phichit laughs, and puts his plate in to heat up. “Fair enough. Got any plans for this exciting Wednesday evening?”

Yuuri _hm_ s. “I’m heading over to Viktor’s in just a bit,” he admits.

Phichit makes a noncommittal noise as he puts his own plate in the microwave, but the tired grin on his face takes on a forced quality.

“Okay, what is it?” Yuuri asks, knowing this expression all too well.

“It’s just...” Phichit trails off, and a small furrow grows between his brows. “I know I told you I’d stop bringing this up but, just hypothetically, if Viktor were to ask you on a date, what would you say?”

Yuuri blinks, not having expected this. He must hesitate slightly too long, because Phichit rushes in to fill the gap, saying, “I mean, I know I like to tease you about how he’s _obviously_ into you and all but… _You_ do like _him,_ right?”

Of course he does. From his initial starstruck celebrity crush to… whatever’s happening now, as he’s really beginning to get to know the person under the glamorous mask. But, still. “There’s no point to even thinking about it,” Yuuri says, shrugging slightly and focusing on his dinner so he won’t have to meet Phichit’s eyes. “There’s no way someone like him could be interested in someone like me.”

It’s Phichit’s turn to let the silence grow long. “You really believe that, huh?” he says at length.

Yuuri just shrugs again in reply. He does, though. It’s impossible for him not to. It’s like there’s an insurmountable wall between where he is and where he’d need to even be able to consider anything to the contrary.

“Well, I understand, now,” Phichit says after another long stretch of quiet. “And, you know what? I have played the meddlesome best friend more than enough for now, so I’m going to let you figure it out on your own.”

“There’s nothing to figure...” Yuuri begins to insist, then sighs and lets it go. He takes his food to the table and changes the subject as he sits down. After all, two can play the nosy best friend game. “Didn’t you say you were talking to some guy in one of your classes?”

“Oh, yeah,” Phichit says, apparently accepting the new topic. “We went out for coffee yesterday after my last test.”

“How’d that go?”

“Well,” Phichit says, and he’s turned away, but Yuuri can hear the eye roll in his voice. “I was telling him about my hamsters and he was like, ‘Oh I think small pets are boring,’ so he’s dead to me now.”

Yuuri laughs. “Too bad for him.”

“Right?” Phichit says, striking a saucy pose that’s made only slightly less impressive by the dark circles under his eyes.

A second later, the microwave dings, and Phichit brings his own plate over to the table. They eat in relative silence, both of them tired and hungry after a long day. The difference is that Yuuri’s isn’t over yet. He tries not to be envious of the fact that Phichit will get to go to bed _hours_ before him.

When Yuuri finishes eating, he cleans his dishes and stares wistfully at the door to his bedroom. He’s really so, so tired. Nevertheless, he turns back to the door, puts a coat on, shoulders his bag, and waves goodbye to Phichit.

The bus is standing room-only when he gets on, which is probably the only reason he doesn’t doze off on the way to Viktor’s apartment.

Before knocking on the door, he makes an effort to look less dead on his feet than he is, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and smoothing his hair back into place.

Once he’s judged that he’s done all he can do to fix his appearance, Yuuri knocks softly on the door. Instantly, there’s a soft bark from inside, and the muffled scrabbling of paws on a wooden floor.

The door opens a second later, and Yuuri just has time to brace himself as Makkachin barrels into him, cavorting in joyous circles and buffeting his legs from all sides in her excitement.

“Hi, Makka,” he says, and she looks up at him, tongue lolling, and nudges his hand in reply. He obliges, and absently rubs her ears as he looks up to greet Viktor. He’s standing in the open doorway, that peculiar grin on his face that he always seems to get when he watches Makkachin and Yuuri. However, it quickly changes to a look of concern as he gets a good look at Yuuri’s face. Clearly he hadn’t been as successful at hiding his exhaustion as he’d hoped.

“Yuuri,” Viktor greets him, “Hello. Not that I’m not glad to see you, but are you alright?”

“Hi,” Yuuri says, smiling weakly. “I’m alright, just… haven’t gotten much sleep the past few days. Finals week, you know?”

Viktor’s brows draw together as he opens his mouth to reply. “Shouldn’t you be getting some rest? You look exhausted.”

The idea is tempting, but… Yuuri shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I want to be here.”

“If you’re sure,” Viktor says, nodding slightly in acquiescence. “Come on in.” He holds the door and stands aside to let Yuuri in. Makkachin follows, and Viktor shuts the door behind them.

He sets his bag on the floor in what’s become its customary spot and shoulders out of his jacket, folding it and setting it on the arm of the couch.

“How’s your week been?” Yuuri asks to fill the silence.

“Good, good,” Viktor says, though when Yuuri glances up he can see that his face is still a little tense with concern. “Working on finishing the choreography for my short program. Gotta go out with a bang, right?”

Yuuri grins tiredly and nods. “I’m really looking forward to seeing it. Shall we…?” He trails off and gestures at the piano.

“Oh!” Viktor says, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Yes, let me just get the chair from the other room...”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says unthinkingly. He’s tired enough that the idea of leaning on Viktor sounds nice rather than embarrassing.

Viktor freezes mid-stride and simply says, “Okay.” He shuffles almost bashfully to the piano, Yuuri a couple steps behind, and pulls out the bench. He gestures with a flourish of his wrist and Yuuri grins again before taking a seat where indicated. Then Viktor slides in beside Yuuri, and even though he seems to be trying to keep his distance, it’s impossible to keep their thighs from touching entirely.

There’s a flash of worry that this was too forward of Yuuri, that he’d crossed the line by basically inviting himself into Viktor’s personal space like this, but… Well, he hadn’t objected. And besides, his brain is too fogged with sleep deprivation and stress to dwell too much on it. In a way, it’s a relief. The cure for anxiety is apparently sheer exhaustion, he thinks half-bitterly.

“Have you been practicing?” Yuuri asks, a weak attempt at wry sternness in his voice.

“Probably not as much as I should have,” Viktor admits with a sheepish grin. “I hope my teacher isn’t too disappointed.”

“He’ll let it slide this time,” Yuuri says, a grin breaking over his face despite his efforts to keep his face neutral. But Viktor returns it, his own mouth curving into a cute boyish smile as he looks down over the keys almost bashfully.

“What’s the lesson plan today?” Viktor asks after a second.

Yuuri blinks. He hadn’t even thought about it—he’d barely remembered to actually be here today. He’ll have to improvise, and he’s _not_ in the best state for that. He hopes Viktor won’t be too disappointed with him.

“Quick review, first,” he says. “Do you remember the names of the keys?”

Viktor bites his lip absently as he turns his attention back to the piano. Delicately, he places a finger on one of the white keys. “Q-flat?”

It’s so blatantly wrong that Yuuri knows that Viktor is teasing him—but he doesn’t know why.

“Viktor,” Yuuri tries to admonish him, but he has to suppress a laugh at the playful expression on Viktor’s face.

“I just don’t remember, Yuuri,” Viktor says so earnestly that it’s clearly a lie. “You’ll have to play something to jog my memory.”

“If you wanted me to show off, you could have just asked,” Yuuri replies, unable to stifle the giggle any longer.

“Will you play something for me then, Yuuri?” Viktor asks in reply, tilting his head for a side and giving him a dazzling smile right off the cover of a magazine. Tired as he is, there’s no way Yuuri could say no to that.

“Alright,” Yuuri says, surprised that he’s feeling only traces of performance anxiety. This is more evidence for his theory that exhaustion is the cure for anxiety. Pushing that thought aside, he tries to dredge up a good piece to play, and eventually settles on an arrangement of a folk song he’d learned from his first piano teacher. A simple piece, but one his hands know so well he won’t even have to think about.

Yuuri sets his fingers on the keys and begins, playing the opening chords by rote before he notices something… different. His face lights up as he looks at Viktor.

“You got it tuned!”

“Pretty big difference, right?” Viktor says, the same bright grin on his face.

Yuuri plays through a couple more bars of the song before stopping again. “It sounds _so_ much better.”

“I couldn’t stand to see you wince every time I played. It was hurting my self-esteem,” Viktor says, playfully bumping his shoulder against Yuuri’s. It feels nice.

“It definitely wasn’t you… And the piano wasn’t _that_ bad,” Yuuri protests weakly.

Viktor just looks at him.

“Okay, it was pretty bad,” he capitulates.

“That’s what Phichit said, too,” Viktor says.

“Oh god,” Yuuri groans, panic momentarily jolting him more awake. “You had _Phichit_ do it after all? He didn’t...” He pauses, wondering if he should ask, but plows on ahead after a second. “He didn’t say anything weird, did he?”

Viktor tilts his head again, asking, “Weird how?”

Yuuri shrugs slightly, not wanting to elaborate. “Just… He makes a lot of assumptions.”

Grinning now, Viktor says, “Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything weird, at least not to me. Did he say anything about me to you?”

Yuuri frowns, feeling his brow furrow, and considers. There _had_ been that conversation they’d had just before Yuuri had left, but he’s not about to tell Viktor about that one. “No,” he says at length, “He didn’t even mention he’d been over here at all.”

“Well, if he _feels_ half as tired as you _look,_ I think he has an excuse for forgetting.”

It’s a fair analysis, and with the reminder, another wave of exhaustion sweeps over Yuuri, and all he can do is grin weakly and nod.

Viktor appears to dither for a moment. Eventually, he says, “Why don’t we postpone the lesson for a bit? I’ll make some tea, if you think that might help.”

Yuuri wants to protest, to insist that he’s fine, but when he opens his mouth to say this, a yawn comes out instead, one so overwhelming that he feels his eyes water. Finally, Yuuri answers, “That sounds nice, actually.”

Viktor grins and gets up, headed for the kitchen with Makkachin at his heels. Yuuri gets up a second later, closing the cover on the piano so the keys won’t get dusty, and takes what he’s started thinking of _his_ spot on Viktor’s couch.

It’s still hard and too upright to be a good lounging couch, but right now it might as well the softest and most luxurious featherbed in the world.

“What kind of tea would you like?” Viktor asks from the kitchen, startling Yuuri out of the warm lethargy he’d started to sink into almost instantaneously.

“Oh—um, anything is fine,” he replies, silently adding, ‘ _So long as it has caffeine in it.’_ He’s going to need the boost to make it through the rest of the night. The walk back to the bus stop, never mind the ride itself and then the _additional_ walk to his apartment, sounds like literal torture.

“Okay,” Viktor says, and a touch of humor in his voice makes Yuuri think that he’d understood the unspoken request. Another minute or two, and there’s the welcome whistle of steam from the kettle, and then Viktor is headed over to the couch, a mug in each hand.

He sets one down on the table in front of Yuuri. “Honey?” he asks.

Unthinkingly, Yuuri answers, “Yes?” And looks up expectantly. Viktor blinks, going a little red—probably from the steam rising from his own mug, and Yuuri belatedly realizes his mistake. “I mean, yes, I would like some,” he quickly says, covering up his blush by leaning forward to pick up the cup and breathing in its fragrant vapor. It’s a strong black tea, he absently notes with gratitude, the kind he’d initially disliked but eventually come to appreciate in the US.

“I’ll get some, then,” Viktor says, setting down his own mug and turning away almost too quickly. A moment later he reappears with a small jar of honey, which he hands to Yuuri and sits down. He perfunctorily stirs in a glob and waits for the tea to be cool enough to drink.

He’s saved from having to make conversation by Makkachin, who jumps up onto the couch and butts her head against Yuuri’s arm, making him have to react quickly to keep from spilling hot tea all over himself and Viktor’s furniture.

Viktor gently scolds her, and she gives him a reproachful look before turning back and laying her head on Yuuri’s thigh, very politely this time. He smiles softly and takes one hand off his mug to stroke her neck, and she sighs contentedly.

To fill the silence that’s begun to grow long, Yuuri asks, “So, what are your coach’s other students doing this season?”

Seeming happy enough with this topic, Viktor tells him about how it’s Yuri’s senior debut, so he’s doing something dramatic and flashy, how Georgi recently got dumped by his ice dancer girlfriend and made a last-minute change (much to Yakov’s dismay) to an equally melodramatic program.

Yuuri drains his mug while Viktor speaks, occasionally nodding or smiling at the right moments, but he’s starting to fade again. The tea is backfiring, the warm drink spreading a heaviness throughout his body before the caffeine has a chance to get into his bloodstream, the drowsiness only exacerbated by the lightly snoring dog on his lap.

Viktor is explaining how Mila, the sensible one of his three rink-mates, has put together a really nice program. He doesn’t hear the end of it, though, because his eyes have slid shut. His last thought before he drifts off is that he’s really got to quit doing this.

Hours and hours later, Yuuri wakes with a start as the alarm on his phone goes off. He’s not in his room, he realizes immediately. There’s a second wave of disorientation a moment later as he remembers falling asleep on Viktor’s couch the night before, because that’s not where he is, either. The lack of a crick in his neck should have tipped him off to that immediately.

No, Yuuri realizes as he reaches into his pocket to silence the alarm, he’s in Viktor’s bedroom. In Viktor’s bed, at that. This realization comes with a wave of utter panic, and he quickly looks around to assess the situation, finding his glasses folded neatly on the nightstand.

He wrestles them on, hands shaking, and the room jumps into focus. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before—of course. He thinks he’d remember… well, that’s too unrealistic to consider, even as a passing fancy. Anyway, he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and woken up in the bed. Had Viktor _carried_ him? Somehow, that thought is almost as incomprehensible as his initial one. There’s something deeply uncomfortable vulnerable and intimate about the thought, and he feels himself blush, imagining that.

His next consideration deepens the blush and feeling of discomfort: had Viktor slept here too? Yuuri sits fully upright and inspects the other side of the bed, but the sheets are undisturbed. Regret wars with relief—and more than a shadow of guilt that Yuuri had made Viktor sleep on that awful couch.

He’s momentarily distracted from his thoughts when Makkachin, apparently noticing his movement, trots into the room and jumps up on the bed to cover Yuuri’s face in good-morning kisses. There’s something folded around her collar, Yuuri notices, and can’t suppress a small smile at Viktor stealing his method of note-delivery.

He gives Makkachin’s ears a good scratch and unfolds the note.

‘ _Dear Yuuri,’_ it begins. _‘Good morning. I hope you slept alright. I tried to wake you up last night, but you were clearly very tired, and the most I could get out of you was to convince you to walk to the bed.’_ Yuuri searches his memory, but has no recollection of this. Clearly, he _had_ been very tired to go along with that, let alone to forget it ever happened. Again, regret and relief are mingled at the revelation that Viktor did _not_ have to carry him.

The note goes on _. ‘I hope this doesn’t make you late for any of your finals—please feel free to have your professors call me if you need an alibi!’_ He’s drawn a winky face after this, and it makes Yuuri smile too, at what an absolute _dork_ he can be sometimes. ‘ _I’m at morning practice until 11. Please help yourself to coffee/breakfast. Love, Viktor,_ ’ it concludes _._

Luckily, Yuuri isn’t running late for anything. He just has one project due today—any time before midnight, and he can submit it by email. It’s just about done anyway; it just needs a final review and it’ll be as good as it can be, so that’s a relief.

Taking a moment to let everything sink in, Yuuri falls back down onto the soft bed and closes his eyes, pushing his glasses up and rubbing them with the heels of his hands. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s slept in this bed—but before, when Viktor had been out of town, the linens had all been freshly washed. They haven’t, this time, which isn’t to say that they seem dirty but… they smell like Viktor. The faint scent of his cologne and his shampoo cling to the pillow under Yuuri’s head, mingled with the warm masculine scent of Viktor himself. It’s a heady mix, bordering on overwhelming. Yuuri wonders if the smell will stick to him, stay with him throughout the day. He likes that idea more than he should.

Makkachin flops down next to him and lays her head on his chest, thinking that he’s going to go back to sleep, and distracting him from this train of thought. Honestly, he’s tempted to do just that, but the already tumultuous morning has him too awake to doze back off, now. Instead, he just takes a long moment to collect himself before getting up again, for real this time.

He forgoes the offer of coffee and breakfast, instead going to the bathroom and washing his face, then quietly gathering his things and patting Makkachin before slipping out the door. He locks the apartment behind him—he still has the key Viktor had made for him. He’d never asked for it back, and Yuuri had forgotten to offer. Well, it’s convenient right now, at least.

He walks to the bus stop half in a daze, vaguely wishing he’d at least had a glass of water before leaving—there’s a stale fuzzy taste in his mouth and he’s sure his breath is unpleasant. Nevertheless, he goes on, waits for his bus, and makes his way home.

When he reaches his own apartment, he opens the door quietly. It’s still early, and there’s a chance Phichit might be asleep.

To his dismay, however, Phichit is awake and in the kitchen. The scent of strong coffee brewing is a slight solace, but Yuuri still groans internally. He _knows_ what Phichit is going to think this was.

He sees Phichit eye him up and down, taking in the disheveled hair, the same clothes Yuuri had left the house in the night before. He sees the wicked grin creep across his friend’s face and this time he groans _externally_.

“Did you and Viktor have a good night?”” Phichit asks, the innocent tone of his voice at odds with his expression. “I have to say, I am so glad you both finally figured out your shit.”

“It’s not what you think,” Yuuri says, setting his bag down by the door with a heavy sigh.

“You mean to tell me that you come home this early in the morning, looking guilty and wearing last night’s clothes… and you _didn’t_ sleep with him?”

“No,” Yuuri says emphatically, blushing hard. “I was there for maybe half an hour and then I fell asleep on his couch.” _And woke up in his bed,_ he thinks, but he’s _not_ telling Phichit that part if he ever wants to hear the end of it.

“Well that’s,” Phichit pauses, “Disappointing. For me, at least. Because now I have to _keep_ my resolve to stop being the meddlesome best friend.”

Yuuri just rolls his eyes and fishes a mug out of the cabinet, holding it out for Phichit to pour him some of the coffee. He obliges, and Yuuri takes the mug over to the rickety table, sitting down and determinedly putting all thoughts except for how good this bitter caffeinated bean juice is.

At some point he sees Phichit wave a farewell, a gesture which he unthinkingly returns, and then he’s alone in the apartment.

Yuuri drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down with a _clack._ It’s time to forget about his meddling best friend and his… whatever Viktor is, and focus on his project that’s due.

It really is a good thing that it’s already almost perfect, because he knows he’s _not_ going to be able to clear his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the delay with this one. A personal event caused my creativity to...dry up for a while. It's back, though, so I can more or less guarantee that the next chapter won't take this long.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, even after such a long break. And thanks for the comments that I've fallen _incredibly_ behind on replying to.
> 
> Final note: My beta is presently too busy to help me out with this fic, and honestly he's 90% of my ability to write with decent grammar and a reasonable number of commas, so please let me know if I did something egregiously wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on [tumblr!](http://farseersfool.tumblr.com)


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